by Sara Rosett
Murder at Blackburn Hall
Sara Rosett
Contents
Acknowledgments
About Murder at Blackburn Hall
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
The Story Behind the Story
About the Author
Also by Sara Rosett
MURDER AT BLACKBURN HALL
Book Two in the High Society Lady Detective series
Published by McGuffin Ink
Copyright © 2019 by Sara Rosett
Cover Design: Alchemy Book Covers
Editing: Historical Editorial
Map Illustration by Hanna Sandvig: www.bookcoverbakery.com
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All rights are reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this work may be used, stored, transmitted, or reproduced in any manner or form whatsoever without express written permission from the author and publisher.
This is a work of fiction, and names, characters, incidents, and places are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, incidents, and places is coincidental.
Created with Vellum
Acknowledgments
Thank you to Jim Honderich for helping me get the golf right and to T.C. Milton, proofreader extraordinaire.
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A huge thank you to my Patreon supporters:
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Carol S. Bisig
Margaret Hulse
Carolyn Schrader
Connie Hartquist Jacobs
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Thank you so much! I’m a blessed author to have such wonderful readers.
About Murder at Blackburn Hall
A missing author and a sleepy English village rife with secrets . . .
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September, 1923. Despite closing her first case, high society lady detective Olive Belgrave hasn’t found a new client. She’s taken a job as a hat model to pay for her poky boarding house room. But then a job offer comes her way—make discreet inquiries about a famous author who’s disappeared. Olive travels to the English countryside to hunt for the missing mystery author. But soon after she arrives in the sleepy village, a body is discovered. A second murder focuses the police’s attention on Olive, and she must clear her name before the murderer pens a plot that frames Olive.
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Murder at Blackburn Hall is the second book in the High Society Lady Detective series, a lighthearted cozy historical mystery series set in 1920s England. If you love novels that take you back to the Golden Age of detective fiction with interesting plots, posh settings, and twisty mysteries, you’ll love the High Society Lady Detective Series from USA Today bestseller Sara Rosett.
Chapter One
Madame LaFoy gestured to the chair across the desk from her in the small office at the back of her hat shop. “Please have a seat, Miss Belgrave.”
I perched on the edge of a chair upholstered in pale peach and folded my hands in my lap as Madame LaFoy gave my hat a critical look. I’d done my best to freshen up the cloche with two feathers and a new ribbon, but her lips turned down. She didn’t bother to suppress a sigh as she transferred her attention to her desk, where she searched among the ledgers, scraps of fabric, ribbon, and flowers. She extracted a letter from under a cluster of peacock feathers. She skimmed the wrinkled pages. “Gwen Stone has given you a character.” Her attention switched from the letter to my face. “A relative?”
I shifted on the chair. “Yes.” I’d hoped with the difference in our last names, that fact would be overlooked. It seemed rather sordid to rely on family connections for an entrée to the working world, but jobs were extremely hard to come by. I’d had to swallow my pride and ask my cousin for a reference.
Madame LaFoy nodded. “I see the resemblance.”
That would be a first, I thought but kept silent. My tall, elegant cousin Gwen had dark eyes and blonde hair. I was shorter with dark blue eyes and bobbed brown hair. Not to mention the differences in our temperament. I liked to be on the move, while Gwen was quiet and steady.
“Something about your bone structure,” Madame LaFoy murmured, then added, “Miss Gwen Stone has excellent taste, and she’s a good customer.” She dropped the letter onto the desk. “You do understand the position is a hat model?”
“Yes.”
“And you’d be able to . . . fulfill the requirements of the position, Miss Belgrave?”
Daughters of the gentry, even impoverished gentry, weren’t supposed to work. Madame LaFoy might have hoped employing me would draw in some customers from my set. Unfortunately, many of my friends had also landed in situations like mine, finding themselves among the new poor, as the newspapers called us.
Madame LaFoy said, “Most likely, some of my patrons will be friends of yours or of your cousin. It could be awkward—”
“It won’t cause a problem,” I said. “I’ll be very professional.”
A frown wrinkled Madame’s forehead. “Do you have any experience?”
I smiled. This question had always tripped me up in my previous job interviews. For once I could answer in the affirmative. “Yes, I’ve worn hats all my life.”
Madame LaFoy’s frown deepened. “Do you have any experience working in a shop?”
So Madame LaFoy was not the lighthearted sort who laughed at little jokes. I rearranged my features into a serious expression. “Well, no, but I’m a quick learner.”
The downward curve of Madame LaFoy’s lips became more pronounced.
I sat straighter. “I can start as soon as you’d like. Even as early as tomorrow.” It was Friday afternoon, and I knew the millinery was open on Saturday. I doubted Madame had more interviews lined up today. If she really needed someone, then she might take a chance on me if I could start right away.
Madame LaFoy stood, and the silk of her skirt whispered around her calves as she moved to the office door. “I’ll give you a week’s trial, beginning tomorrow morning. Eight o’clock sharp. Not a moment later.”
My heels sank into the rug as I walked to the door, weaving through peach-colored settees and occasional tables topped with fresh roses. I couldn’t quite believe it had come to this, applying for jobs again. After what had happened at Archly Manor, I’d been so sure I was on my way.
I’d taken a job and completed it successfully. I was the first to admit the route to the conclusion had taken a few unusual turns—hairpin turns, to be completely accurate. But I’d done it. And I’d been paid too. I’d returned to London with enough money to pay the rent on my poky room and even repair my motor, a dear little Morris Cowley, and garage it at the edge of Belgravia, not far from my boarding house.
But my funds were dwindling at a rapid rate. My choices were to either go back to the job search or return to live in Tate House with my father and Sonia. I’d rather model hats for every snobbish high society matron in London than live under my new stepmother’s thumb.
I stepped out of the shop into the lingering summer
heat and made my way across Mayfair toward the Savoy, where I had an appointment with Jasper Rimington for tea. He’d sent me a message yesterday. He was back in London after a trip and wanted to hear how my new venture was going. Jasper was an old family friend. We had gone for years without seeing each other, but a few months ago we’d met again by chance. It was before the Archly Manor incident, and my financial situation had been rather dire. Jasper had spotted it straightaway and suggested tea, which I’d desperately needed.
My bank balance wasn’t as grim as it had been then, but I wasn’t about to turn down tea at the Savoy. I didn’t even consider the extravagance of hailing a taxi. I walked.
Jasper was lounging in a chair in the opulent lobby, looking dapper and slightly bored as he surveyed the room with his hooded gray eyes, a book held loosely in his hand. When he spotted me, he tucked the book under his arm, then came my way, drawing the attention of two women strolling through the lobby. Jasper didn’t notice. “Hello, old girl.” He removed his hat, revealing his blond hair. He was fastidious about his clothing and fussed over every seam, but that attention to fashion didn’t extend to his wavy fair hair.
“Hello, Jasper. Given up on hair tonic?”
“It’s a losing battle. I’ve conceded to the curl.”
“I’m sure the ladies are thrilled.” I’d heard more than one deb rhapsodize about Jasper’s hair.
A hint of grin turned up the corners of his mouth. “I couldn’t say. Grigsby, however, is mortified. Looks as if I’ve personally run him through with a saber every time I leave my rooms.”
“Your valet does have rather strong opinions.” He disapproved of me and didn’t bother to hide it. “Can’t say I agree with him.” I tilted my head. “It suits you.” I tucked my hand through his arm. “It is good to see you.”
“Missed the old mug, did you?”
“Actually, yes. I’m glad to know you’re back in town. Where were you again?”
He waved his walking stick as we set off toward the restaurant. “Here and there. Too boring to recount.”
“Really? I’d think Bebe Ravenna would be rather entertaining.” I’d glanced over a woman’s shoulder on the Tube a few weeks before and had seen Jasper’s picture in the newspaper. The willowy blonde actress had been draped over his arm.
Jasper waved a languid hand. “I met her at a party where I’d been invited to make up the numbers, nothing more.”
I didn’t doubt the truth of the statement. With so many young men lost in the Great War, hostesses had to scramble to balance their tables and dance floors. “Well, Miss Ravenna looked pleased to have you there.”
“She was a pleasant companion,” Jasper said in an offhanded way. “But I’m sure my activities are nothing as exciting as what you’ve been doing.”
“Hardly.”
Once we were seated and our tea arrived, Jasper said, “Now, don’t puncture my bubble. During my dull sojourn to the continent, I passed many a tedious train ride picturing you having the grandest of adventures. I refuse to believe you’re living the quiet life. Found any more stray murderers?”
“Nothing is as exciting as that. Far from it, in fact.”
“No commissions from your newspaper advertisement?”
“A few. So far, the inquiries have been from elderly ladies with missing pets.”
“Pets?”
“In the last fortnight, I’ve recovered a pug, a tabby, and a rather high-strung Chihuahua.”
“Aren’t all Chihuahuas high-strung?”
“My experience is limited. This one certainly was.”
Jasper set down his teacup. “So, not what you were expecting?”
“Not at all. I’ve decided I must draw the line and refuse any more of these animal cases. Otherwise, I’ll become known as the pet detective. Yes, I know it’s funny, but it’s not at all what I hoped for.”
“Of course. I’m sorry I laughed, but you do have to admit there’s a certain humor there.”
“I’m sure I’ll think it’s hilarious—years from now. It’s to the point that I’ve become one of the gainfully employed.”
Jasper paused, teacup halfway to his mouth. “You’ve found a regular job?”
“You don’t have to sound so shocked,” I said.
“It’s not a slight against you, old thing. It’s just that there are so few jobs to be found.”
“I realize that. I’m fortunate to have found an opening,” I said. “I have a week’s trial at Madame LaFoy’s Millinery.”
“Mayfair. A good address.”
Trust Jasper to know the best hat shops in London, I thought as I savored my peach Melba.
“So you have no other prospects?” Jasper asked.
I shook my head. “I had to tell Mrs. Forsyth there was really no hope of tracking down her parakeet. It flew out of her drawing room window last week.”
Jasper cleared his throat. “I can see how that would be an impossible case.”
“Quite. And since that’s the only other inquiry I’ve had—”
“Thus, the hat shop. I understand.” Jasper looked away for a moment as he drummed his fingers on the table, then he took a card from his waistcoat pocket. “If you’re not interested in pursuing a future in millinery, you should consider telephoning Vernon.” Jasper placed the card on the table in front of me. “He’s in a spot of bother.”
Vernon Hightower, Owner was printed under the words Hightower Books. I ran my finger over the embossed letters. “My. You do have friends in high places.” Copies of mystery releases from Hightower Books were on display in bookstalls all over London. “Is this the source of your lurid fiction?”
“Some of it. Speaking of that . . .” Jasper reached for the hardback book he’d been carrying. When we’d been seated, he’d placed it on the seat of one of the empty chairs at our table. “I promised I’d share my library of crime fiction with you. This one isn’t from Hightower Books, but I think you’ll enjoy it.”
I read the title aloud, “The Secret Adversary. The cover is . . . interesting.” It featured a bear dressed in a suit, removing a theatrical mask of a man’s face. “You’re sure this is a mystery?”
Jasper laughed. “Yes. Mystery and adventure and a love story.”
I ran my hand over the cover. “If only that were my life instead of hat shop girl working to make ends meet.”
Jasper raised his eyebrows as he tilted his head toward the business card. “Then give Vernon a call.”
I placed the book to the side of my place setting. “What’s his spot of bother?”
“It’s not my story to tell. Hightower mentioned it at the club—only the barest outline and in strictest confidence, of course. A delicate matter. It’s not really in my line, but you might find it of interest. That’s all I can say about it. I floated the idea of you taking it on.”
“Your Mr. Hightower sounds interesting, but I have a job lined up.” Jasper didn’t press the issue, and we moved on to other topics.
Jasper and I had a lovely tea. We parted at the door of the Savoy, he to go to his club, and me to my room at Mrs. Gutler’s. On my way, I passed a telephone box, and my steps slowed. I’d tucked the business card and the book away in my handbag as I left the Savoy.
During tea with Jasper, I’d dismissed the idea of calling Mr. Hightower, but perhaps I should contact him. After all, Madame LaFoy was only giving me a week’s trial. If she wasn’t satisfied, I could be looking for work again next week. It couldn’t hurt to telephone Mr. Hightower.
I did an about-face and retraced my steps. I telephoned Hightower Books and was put through to Vernon Hightower’s secretary, who seemed reluctant to let me speak to his boss until I mentioned Jasper’s name.
A few seconds later, a smooth masculine voice came on the line. “A friend of Jasper Rimington’s, are you?” The accent wasn’t as polished or exact as someone’s from the high society set, but it wasn’t a rough working-class accent either.
“Yes. Mr. Rimington didn’t give me any
details. He only said I should contact you about a delicate matter, as he phrased it. I might be of help to you.”
“What’s your name again?”
“Olive Belgrave.”
The line was silent for a few beats. “Be here tomorrow morning, eight o’clock.”
I hesitated. Did I want to become a hat shop girl—steady employment and a measly paycheck, but a paycheck nonetheless—or did I want to take a chance on something else, something I knew absolutely nothing about?
“Are you still there?”
“Thank you, sir.” I tightened my grip on the earpiece. “I’ll be there.”
I ended the call, then asked to be connected to LaFoy’s Millinery. Madame herself answered.
I swallowed, then plunged in. “This is Olive Belgrave. I’ve had a change of circumstance. I’m terribly sorry, but I’m afraid I cannot be there tomorrow morning.”
Madame LaFoy’s voice managed to convey the iciness of a winter breeze. “I see.”
“Again, I’m very sorry. Perhaps Monday—”
“No, Monday is out of the question. In the future, I’ll be delighted to receive you as a customer but not as a job applicant. Goodbye, Miss Belgrave.”
Heart beating fast, I replaced the receiver. Well, I’d done it now. Either I was embarking on a new adventure, or I had a bright future as a doggie detective.