Praise for Anna Lee Huber’s Verity Kent mysteries
“Readers looking for atmospheric mystery set in the period following the Great War will savor the intricate plotting and captivating details of the era.”
—Library Journal (Starred Review)
“Action-filled . . . Huber offers a well-researched historical and a fascinating look at the lingering aftermath of war.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A historical mystery to delight fans of Agatha Christie or Daphne du Maurier.”
—Bookpage
“Huber’s historical mysteries are always multilayered, complex stories, and Penny is an especially satisfying one as she interweaves social commentary and righteous feminist rage into the post-War period. With a perfect blend of murder, mystery, history, romance, and powerful heroines, Huber has yet to disappoint.”
—Criminal Element
“A thrilling mystery that supplies its gutsy heroine with plenty of angst-ridden romance.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Masterful . . . Just when you think the plot will zig, it zags. Regardless of how well-versed you may be in the genre, you’ll be hard-pressed to predict this climax.... Deeply enjoyable . . . just the thing if you’re looking for relatable heroines, meatier drama, and smart characters with rich inner lives.”
—Criminal Element
“Huber is an excellent historical mystery writer, and Verity is her best heroine. Sidney and Verity are a formidable couple when they work together, but they are also very real. They don’t leap straight back into life before the war but instead face many obstacles and struggles as they readjust to married life and post-war life. Nonetheless, the love between Sidney and Verity is real and true, and the way that Huber creates their re-blossoming love is genuine. Topped off with a gripping mystery, this will not disappoint.”
—Historical Novel Society
“I loved This Side of Murder, a richly textured mystery filled with period detail and social mores, whose plot twists and character revelations kept me up way past my bedtime. Can’t wait for the next Verity Kent adventure!”
—Shelley Noble, New York Times bestselling author of The Beach at Painters’ Cove and Ask Me No Questions
“A smashing and engrossing tale of deceit, murder and betrayal set just after World War I. . . . Anna Lee Huber has crafted a truly captivating mystery here.”
—All About Romance
“The new Verity Kent Mystery series is rich in detail without being overwhelming and is abundant with murder, mystery, and a bit of romance. The plot is fast-moving with twists and turns aplenty. Huber knows what it takes to write a great mystery.”
—RT Book Reviews
“A captivating murder mystery told with flair and panache!”
—Fresh Fiction
Novels by Anna Lee Huber
This Side of Murder
Treacherous Is the Night
Penny for Your Secrets
A Pretty Deceit
Murder Most Fair
MURDER MOST FAIR
A Verity Kent Mystery
ANNA LEE HUBER
KENSINGTON BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Praise for Anna Lee Huber’s Verity Kent mysteries
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
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
Teaser chapter
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2021 by Anna Aycock
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.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
The K logo is a trademark of Kensington Publishing Corp.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-2850-0 (ebook)
ISBN-10: 1-4967-2850-5 (ebook)
ISBN: 978-1-4967-2849-4
For my youngest brother Matt, who has always viewed the world through unique eyes, and in doing so has made the rest of us do the same, to our betterment. Your peaceful, easy-going nature is a balm to those around you, and your dedication and zeal for the things you love is inspiring.
You are gracious, kind, and intelligent, and an amazing uncle. I’m so proud of you.
Thank you for always being there!
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
2020 was not the year any of us anticipated it would be. In many ways it was extremely difficult for everyone, including us creative types. As such, I struggled more than usual with my writing—with finding the inspiration, the will, and the impetus to create. But a number of individuals helped me to keep going, and to believe that the stories flowing from my fingertips weren’t completely rubbish. Chief among them was my darling husband, who not only encourages and uplifts me, but serves as an excellent sounding board, and wrangles our children to give me extra hours to write when needed. I also must thank my two daughters, who spent more time at home than usual, and were mostly patient and understanding of the fact that Mommy and Daddy had to get their work done.
Another huge thank you goes out to my readers, particularly those of you who wrote to tell me how much my books meant to you, especially during a time of tumult and uncertainty. At times your messages arrived at just the moment when I needed something to spur me on, to remind me why I write stories in the first place. So thank you for sharing your lives and your precious time with me and my tales.
I also wish to thank all my author friends. We commiserated and empathized with each other about how difficult it all was, and then encouraged each other to keep going. I’ve never been more grateful to be part of such a broad community of amazing individuals. You all make me aspire to do better.
Heaps of thanks also go to my friends and family, whose support uplifts me and means so much. In particular Jackie Musser and Stacie Roth Miller, my indispensable beta readers.
I’m incredibly grateful to my agent, Kevan Lyon, whose guidance is always stellar; my eagle-eyed editor, Wendy McCurdy; and the entire team at Kensington, including, but not limited to, Elizabeth Trout, Ann Pryor, Carly Sommerstein, Lauren Jernigan, Alexandra Nicolajsen, and Kristine Mills; as well as the creator of my gorgeous
cover illustrations, Andrew Davidson. You all make my books better and help them find their wings.
Slowly, slowly, the wound to the soul begins to make itself felt, like a bruise, which only slowly deepens its terrible ache, till it fills all the psyche. And when we think we have recovered and forgotten, it is then that the terrible after-effects have to be encountered at their worst.
—D. H. Lawrence, Lady Chatterley’s Lover
CHAPTER 1
Fair is foul, and foul is fair: Hover through the fog and filthy air.
—William Shakespeare
November 1919
Seaford, Sussex
“Did you thrash the fellow?” my cousin Reg asked my husband eagerly.
“Nothing so brutal,” I protested, casting Reg a chiding look he couldn’t see, having lost his sight during the war, but could no doubt hear in my voice.
One corner of Sidney’s lips quirked upward as he slid a hand into the pocket of his gray worsted trousers. “No, I simply helped the chap back over the fence where he belonged.”
I turned to hand him a gin rickey, arching a single eyebrow wryly. “And by ‘helped’ you mean, ‘shoved him off a six-foot-high wall.’ ”
Reg tipped his head back and laughed while Sidney shrugged, his amused gaze lingering on me as he took a sip of his drink. The ice clinked against the glass.
“Well, the photographer was trespassing, wasn’t he?” my friend Daphne countered from her perch beside Reg, whose side she hadn’t strayed far from in the past fortnight. She fluffed her blond bob with one hand. “He was certainly up to no good. Probably after some scurrilous pictures he could sell to the papers.”
I appreciated her outrage on our behalf, something that brought color into her cheeks and a sparkle into her blue eyes.
Not that Reg could see it. Though he didn’t seem averse to her company. At least, not after I explained to her that he was merely blind, not a doddering old fool. Kindhearted Daphne had meant well, even if at times she was a bit thick. In this case she’d made the same mistake as much of society, including my aunt, in thinking that blind meant incapable and inept. Reg might have lost the use of his eyes, but his mind and wit were still as sharp as ever, and Daphne had swiftly remedied her error.
For my part, I was pleased to see my cousin looking so merry. Escaping from his overbearing mother and the ever-present troubles at his estate, Littlemote House, had done wonders for his spirits. I suspected the fact that—Daphne’s momentary blunder aside—everyone here treating him like he had a brain and a working set of limbs also helped.
My brilliant friend George Bentnick, who’d worked as a codebreaker during the war, reclined in a chair across the terrace of our cottage. The curls of his black hair ruffled in the evening breeze as he took a drag from his cigarette before turning to blow a long plume of smoke out into the garden. But I hadn’t failed to note the smirk stretching his lips.
“And just what do you find so amusing?” I asked as I draped myself over one of our lounge chairs, making certain the ends of the georgette silk scarf wrapped around my neck weren’t caught behind me. I arranged the skirts of my aubergine gown so that only my ankles peeked out.
“That photographer’s folly. What did he expect would happen when he scaled the fence of dashing war hero Sidney Kent and his beautiful and intrepid wife, Verity?” George questioned, quoting almost verbatim the description so often ascribed to us in the press. He scoffed, lifting his glass. “Kent certainly wasn’t going to invite him in to tea.”
“You underestimate me, Bentnick,” Sidney replied. “Perhaps next time I’ll do that very thing.”
“Oh, but surely there won’t be a next time.” Daphne leaned forward to protest.
This comment was met by four silent looks of disbelief. In my experience, photographers and newspapermen were not so easily deterred. Not when their quarry was guaranteed to sell papers and gossip rags. I supposed it was our own fault for remaining in the limelight for solving murders. Otherwise, our celebrity would have already dimmed five months after Sidney’s celebrated return after the fifteen months he had been believed to be dead, and the revelation of the traitors I’d helped him unmask.
In any case, I was tired of discussing the incident with the photographer. I tipped my head back to admire the streaks of red, mauve, and golden orange painting the sky, and providing a stiff competition to the leaves still clinging to our maple and black poplar trees for the most brilliant prospect. At least, temporarily. I wrapped my juniper-green woolen jumper tighter around me and breathed deeply of the air tinted with the smoke from the hearths burning inside, the earthy aroma of autumn decay, and a faint tinge of saltiness from the sea a short distance away. The breeze sawed gently through the trees overhead, rustling the leaves like castanets, and I allowed my eyes to drift shut. The evening was a lovely one, especially for mid-November.
Certainly lovelier than the evenings I’d spent at our cottage during the four long years of the war. Just a little over a year earlier, nature’s chorus before sunset—no matter how sweet the sound—would merely have been a prelude to the nightly growls and grumbles of the guns echoing across the Channel from the Western Front some seventy miles away. This was why the few times I’d retreated here I hadn’t remained more than a handful of days. Knowing Sidney was over there, his section of the trenches even at that moment perhaps being shelled and fired upon… It was too wrenching to not only be intellectually aware of the danger he was in, but also audibly reminded of it.
Even the relative peace of daylight had been periodically shattered by the sounds of gunfire and explosions from one of the military camps nearby, the gentle scents of honeysuckle and sweetbriar soured by the drifting stench of gunpowder or some other noxious fume from their training exercises.
A distinctive metallic kak-kak cry filled the air, and I opened my eyes to scowl at the black-winged menace landing on the gable of the cottage roof. “I thought Harley was going to take care of that jackdaw,” I grumbled to Sidney, doubting I was the only one who found the bird’s calls unsettlingly reminiscent of a Vickers machine gun.
“I’m afraid that’s my fault,” a deep voice admitted from over my shoulder.
I turned to find Max Westfield, the Earl of Ryde, grinning sheepishly down at me. His dark blond hair proved to be in need of a haircut, curling upward against the back of his collar.
“One of the tires on my Rolls went flat, and I asked him to change it,” he explained. “And then he uncovered an issue with the axle.”
I couldn’t help but soften at this news. Harley was a wonder with motorcars. Along with his duties as a man-of-all-work here at the cottage, he also repaired motorcars for the local village and its sharp influx of visitors in the summer months. Given the option between catching a jackdaw and tinkering with a motorcar as fine as Max’s pale yellow Rolls-Royce, there was no question what would take precedence. And given the fact that Max was our guest, I couldn’t begrudge Harley the choice he’d made.
“Is that where you’ve been?” I teased him, having wondered where he’d disappeared to for half the afternoon, but having been too lazy to bestir myself to find out.
“Did it happen when we were over at Pevensey?” Sidney queried with a frown. “I noticed there were a number of ruts in that road that needed to be repaired.”
“More than likely.” Max turned toward the drinks trolley, which had been wheeled out onto the terrace. “But then the maintenance of little-used rural roads has hardly been a priority these past five years.”
Our visit to Pevensey Castle, the site of one of the Romans’ Saxon shore forts built to defend Britain from invaders, had been less of a holiday—though we had taken a picnic with us—and more of a matter of unfinished business. A month prior, a letter written by Max’s late father had sent us off on a sort of Romano-British treasure hunt in search of what we’d thought was proof he’d held of the infamous Lord Ardmore’s guilt. One of the clues had been hidden at Pevensey, but we’d been able to sideste
p it and skip to the last site. But we hadn’t figured out the purpose of the key he had also left his son, so we’d decided it would be best to search Pevensey for it. However, our visit had been disappointing in that regard. We’d found the clue that would have led us to Littlemote House and the deadly concealed treasure we’d uncovered there, but we still had no idea what the key was meant for.
Part of me was worried whatever the key unlocked had already fallen into the hands of Lord Ardmore. Ardmore had all but openly admitted he was responsible for the deaths of more than half a dozen people, and had implicated himself in a number of treasonous proceedings. He had proven himself wily, cunning, ruthless, and remorseless. But his somewhat shadowy position with Naval Intelligence and his highly placed friends made him untouchable until we possessed the definitive proof required to bring him down.
Proof that was supposed to lie at the end of the late Lord Ryde’s infuriating treasure hunt. Instead, we’d merely found ourselves with more disquieting questions. For Max even more than the rest of us. Though he presented an unruffled exterior, I could tell he was more unsettled than he wished to appear. When he lifted his drink to his lips, downing the contents in one long swallow before pouring himself another glass, I was even more convinced of it.
I wanted to say something to reassure him, to promise him we would figure out what his father’s key unlocked, to vow that we would find the proof we needed to stop Ardmore and avenge his father’s death. But not everyone on the terrace was privy to the knowledge of our investigation. Besides, I knew that wasn’t what truly disturbed him. It was his father’s culpability in Ardmore’s Zebrina plot, which had enabled the devious lord to smuggle an unknown quantity of the poisonous gas phosgene out of Britain to an unspecified destination—possibly somewhere in Ireland. The late Lord Ryde’s missives from beyond the grave had tried to downplay his role, to deny any knowledge of the Zebrina’s true cargo and Ardmore’s intentions for it, but I knew Max must hold the same doubts I did about the level of his father’s ignorance.
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