by Sara Rosett
“Why? Mr. Mayhew looks respectable.”
“And that’s the problem. Since you haven’t read any of Mr. Mayhew’s books, you wouldn’t know it, but the books are about Lady Eileen and her set, Bright Young People doing exciting and interesting things, like becoming involved in murder and mysteries.”
“Yes, I can see that from the covers. So the author’s image doesn’t match the tone of the books?”
Mr. Hightower pointed the photograph at me. “Exactly. I had an instinct about you, and this proves I was right. We thought we’d bought a book from one of the Bright Young People. Turns out, we had bought a book from a middle-aged man who could write with the voice of a Bright Young Person. We told Mr. Mayhew there wasn’t enough room on his book jackets for his photograph. He never mentioned it again after the first book, and we didn’t bring it up again either. You’re probably wondering why I’m telling you about his photograph?”
“No, you tell a fascinating story. I’m intrigued, and I’m sure this story has a plot.”
“Yes, that was merely the opening act. Now we come to a turning point. Mr. Mayhew has missed his deadline. The manuscript for his next book, Murder on the Ninth Green, has not arrived.”
“I thought authors were late with their manuscripts all the time?”
“Oh, yes, they are. Constant problem.” Mr. Hightower adjusted his tie. “Except for Mr. Mayhew. He’s never missed a deadline. Never. In fact, his manuscripts have always been early. Mr. Mayhew’s deadline was two weeks ago. I received a letter from him last week. He apologized for the delay and said I’d absolutely have the manuscript by Friday of last week. The manuscript still hasn’t arrived.” Mr. Hightower drummed his fingers on the folder.
After a few seconds of silence, I asked, “And you’ve contacted him?” It was an obvious question, but Mr. Hightower’s flow of words seemed to have dried up.
“That’s the problem. I have no way of getting in touch with Mr. Mayhew.”
“Surely you have a postal address?”
“All his correspondence is handled through his solicitor. I have contacted him. Unfortunately, the solicitor had a bad fall. Took a hit to his head and was unconscious for a few days. He’s come around now, but he isn’t his usual self. He’s still confused and forgetful. In short, he’s in no shape to run his office or answer questions. He’s recovering but must take it slowly—complete rest at home for now. His doctor has forbidden him from returning to his office. I’ve been in touch with his secretary, who looked through the files, but he didn’t find any mention of Mr. Mayhew.”
“But you’ve had correspondence from the solicitor regarding Mr. Mayhew?”
Mr. Hightower cleared his throat. “Not on legal matters. Mr. Mayhew signed a five-book contract and used a different solicitor to handle those negotiations. Shortly after it was signed, I received a letter from Mr. Mayhew asking that all correspondence be sent to his new solicitor in Hadsworth, but nothing of a legal nature has come up since then. The solicitor sends the manuscripts to us and forwards our correspondence to Mr. Mayhew.”
“So he’s essentially a post office.”
“Correct.”
“Seems strange.”
“Which exactly describes Mr. Mayhew. He’s an odd one. From the very beginning, Mr. Mayhew insisted on this manner of doing business. I’ve attempted to entice him to London, offered to take him to dinner and a show, introduce him around the office, but he always refuses. He’s intensely private. In fact”—Mr. Hightower hunched forward—“I wouldn’t be surprised to discover Mr. Mayhew had some sort of agreement with the solicitor to handle his matters off-book. I believe that’s why the secretary can’t find a record of Mr. Mayhew as a client.”
“So you have no other way to contact your author except by post through the solicitor?”
“That’s correct, but I do have an idea where Mr. Mayhew might be,” Mr. Hightower said. “Mr. Mayhew and I have had a small exchange of personal correspondence through the solicitor. Christmas cards, that sort of thing. One year, Mr. Mayhew mentioned enjoying an unusually heavy blanketing of snow. A large storm had unexpectedly dumped several inches in Kent at Christmas, and I remember thinking at the time, Mr. Mayhew must live in Kent. The solicitor’s office is in Hadsworth, which is a small village in Kent. I can’t imagine Mr. Mayhew traveling a long distance to engage a solicitor simply to handle the transfer of his manuscript to me and receive our checks. Now, I’d go down to Kent myself and look around Hadsworth, but I’m afraid I’ll cause a stir if I do that.”
He glanced toward his closed office door. “What I haven’t told you about Mr. Mayhew is . . . well, Mr. Mayhew’s books have become the backbone of our sales for the last three years. The success of Mystery at Newberry Close was . . . well, phenomenal. We’ve never seen anything like it. We’ve been doing print run after print run. Even now, it still sells at a steady pace—a brisk steady pace. The other R. W. May books have done just as well. Our company is rather dependent upon Mr. Mayhew for its future success.”
“So you’re afraid that if word gets out that his manuscript is late or that it’s—umm—perhaps not coming . . .”
“Yes. I don’t want to worry anyone here, but I must do something.”
Mr. Hightower might own the publishing company, but he was an excellent storyteller in his own right. He’d captured my interest, and I was itching to delve into the mystery, but I couldn’t in good conscience barrel along, no matter how intriguing I found the situation. I pushed the words out of my mouth. “I still think this is a matter for the police.”
“That is my next step if Hadsworth doesn’t pan out,” he said quickly. “I want you to . . . get the lay of the land, you might say. I can’t do it myself—it would raise red flags all over the office, and with our investors as well if word got out. If I hire a private detective, I’m sure he’d stick out in Hadsworth. It’s a small village, and a stranger staying at the local inn asking questions about a man named Mayhew would certainly be noted. But that’s not what I propose.”
He put the folder on the desk and picked up a letter written on thick cream stationary. “Lady Holt of Blackburn Hall, which is located near the village of Hadsworth, has been pestering me to publish an etiquette guide. She writes a column for The Express about the proper fork to use and how to address invitations. She thinks her guide would be a best seller.”
Mr. Hightower’s tone indicated he thought that sort of book would stick to the shelves rather than fly off them. He tossed the letter on the desk and settled back in his chair, his gaze fixed on me with a definite speculative air. “If a young woman of your class and status were to visit Blackburn Hall on my behalf to examine Lady Holt’s manuscript, it could be done with a minimum of fuss. I can arrange for you to stay at Blackburn Hall for a few days, during which you can make some discreet inquires and find out if Mayhew lives in Hadsworth and what’s happened to his manuscript. If the original is lost in his solicitor’s office—well, Mayhew seems to be a cautious sort of chap. I imagine he’s got his own copy of the manuscript.”
“So you want me to find out if Mr. Mayhew lives in Hadsworth. If he does reside there, then you want me to find out what’s happened to the manuscript.”
“Exactly.”
Mr. Hightower’s assumptions about Hadsworth sounded as if they’d be correct, but what if they weren’t? “What if I can’t find any trace of Mr. Mayhew?”
“Then you’ll have had a well-paid holiday in the country.”
“And what if Mr. Mayhew was in Hadsworth, but he’s gone when I get there?”
Mr. Hightower said, “My, you do like to cover all the possibilities, don’t you?”
“I need to know exactly what you expect from me.”
“That’s fair. All right, if Mr. Mayhew was living there but has done a bunk, try and find out where he’s gone. I imagine he’s been called away unexpectedly—that’s what I hope, anyway. If you can’t get a line on Mr. Mayhew, I will contact the police.” He ran a hand over
his forehead. “And then all hell will break loose here at Hightower Books.”
A short rap sounded, the door opened, and a man leaned in, a swath of his dark hair falling forward over his brow. “Vernon, I need to speak to you about—I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were in a meeting.”
Mr. Hightower stood and picked up a typewritten stack of pages from his desk. “I suppose you’re after the Brittenham manuscript.” He walked across the room and handed it to the man. “It’s going to need a lot of work.”
“I was afraid of that.” The younger man looked from me to Mr. Hightower, clearly waiting for an introduction. I gripped the arms of my chair to stand, but before I could move, Mr. Hightower pushed the manuscript into the young man’s hands. “I’ll chat with you about it in a minute.” He closed the door, forcing the man to step back.
Mr. Hightower returned to the seat beside me. “My executive editor, Busby. Leland Busby. He has no idea about Mr. Mayhew’s manuscript. I’ve been putting Mr. Busby off, telling him it’s on the way.” Mr. Hightower hunched forward in the seat, hands on his knees. “I’ll pay you forty pounds to go to Blackburn Hall and make some quiet inquiries. Twenty pounds now and twenty pounds after you complete the visit. You must report back to me directly. No one else in the office.”
Mum taught me a lady does not gape, and I managed to keep my mouth from dropping open, but just barely. Forty pounds was extremely generous. And a trip to visit a country home on top of it? I didn’t need even a moment to think it over. “I can do that.” I stood, we shook hands, and then I held out the stack of R.W. May’s books.
Mr. Hightower waved them back to me. “Keep them. We have a few copies to spare. A little light reading for you. Perhaps you’ll run across something that will help you find Mr. Mayhew.”
Chapter Four
Two days later, I left for Blackburn Hall after Mr. Hightower finalized arrangements with Lady Holt, which gave me time to pack and read the first R.W. May book. I’d taken the book with me to the park the day before I left, intending to read a few chapters. My small bag was packed, and I’d informed my landlady, Mrs. Gutler, I would be leaving town for a few days on a visit to Blackburn Hall. I had nothing else to do for the rest of the day, so I picked up the first book, The Mystery of Newberry Close, and left for Kensington Gardens. It was much cooler in the park than in my stuffy room.
I settled on a bench in the shade and opened the book. A piece of paper folded in thirds lay between the cover and the end paper. The typed letter was dated three years ago and addressed to Mr. Hightower. It contained a list of potential titles, and the signature at the bottom was R. W. Mayhew. It was interesting to see that Mr. Mayhew had proposed Death on the Train, but someone—Mr. Hightower or an assistant, presumably—had marked through the words and written, Intrigue on the Scotch Express, which was a much better title.
I refolded the paper. Since the list only contained three titles and those books had already been released, I didn’t think I needed to rush the letter back to Mr. Hightower. I turned to the first chapter and began to read. The clever whodunit featured plucky Lady Eileen and her faithful—and besotted—chauffeur. I became so immersed in the story that I didn’t move for several hours. I picked up some buns on the way home and returned to reading, finishing the novel in bed that night.
I’d enjoyed it so much, I stacked it with the other R. W. May books and stowed them in the Morris Cowley with my suitcase to take with me to Blackburn Hall. These country house affairs could either be delightfully fun or dreadfully dull. If Blackburn Hall turned out to be the latter, at least I’d have something to pass the time.
It was a beautiful late summer day as I drove out of London. It had rained heavily during the night, but the day was clear, and the countryside sparkled with a green vibrancy, a last burst of lush color before the more somber tones of autumn. The village of Hadsworth was located in the rolling Kent countryside, where thickly wooded hills were interspersed with patches of emerald fields.
I reduced my speed as I approached the village. Homes, shops, a church, and a prosperous-looking half-timbered pub, The Crown, lined the road. A couple of smaller lanes crossed the High Street like crosshatches, but they petered out not far from the main road. As I reached the end of Hadsworth, I slowed even more as a group of men in plus fours with golf bags on their shoulders crossed the road. The man in the lead touched his flat cap. I waved my fingers over the steering wheel, then let the motor roll on as they turned in at a large sign labeled Rosewood Hills Golf Course.
Following the instructions Mr. Hightower had relayed, I left the village, crossed over a small stone bridge, then watched for the gates that marked the entry to Blackburn Hall. I spotted them, turned in, and drove through a dense thicket of chestnuts.
The lane came out of the trees, and Blackburn Hall, a well-proportioned seventeenth-century red brick mansion, sat in a clearing of the rolling hillside. A river bounded the left side of the house, and beyond the gleaming curve of water, wide fairways of the golf course showed through the trees. Gardens in the formal style stretched out in front of the house, their rectangular outlines echoing the squared-off shape of the house.
Blackburn Hall hadn’t been built along the same lines as the grand estates like Parkview Hall and Archly Manor. Acres and acres of parkland surrounded those homes. Blackburn Hall—both the house and the grounds—was on a smaller scale with the house set closer to the main road, but it was a charming house with the formal gardens and the swath of river alongside it.
The lane forked in front of me. One branch went to the front door and the other disappeared around the side of the house. I hesitated, foot on the brake. What was the status of an emissary from a publisher? Was I a guest, who went to the front door, or was I the help, who went to the back?
Under an arch of Palladian glass, the front door opened and a tall woman came out. She stood by the door, hands clasped at her waist. I could see from the cut of her gown she was a lady. But even if I hadn’t been able to discern her status from her clothing, her ruler-straight spine would have announced it. She had the best posture of anyone I’d seen since finishing school.
It had to be Lady Holt. A flutter of nerves swept through me. I was about to deceive this woman. I doubted Mr. Hightower had a real interest in publishing her book. My “looking over it” was a ruse to get me in the door, a fact I hadn’t let myself dwell on until now.
I drew in a breath, prepared my best smile, and let the motor coast forward along the branch of the lane that took me to the sweep at the front door. I shut off the motor and heard the low-level hum of the river in the distance. Lady Holt crunched across the gravel, her hand extended. “Miss Belgrave, such a pleasure to meet you. I’m Lady Holt. Welcome to Blackburn Hall.”
The current style of tubular dresses with straight lines suited Lady Holt, who looked to be in her late thirties or early forties. Her blonde hair was touched with gray on either side of her narrow face. In fact, everything about her was long and straight, I realized as I shook her hand. Her narrow fingers were chilly, but her grip was strong. “Thank you for having me,” I said. “It’s a pleasure to be here.”
She waved a long arm as she turned to the door. “Come, I’m sure you’re fatigued from your journey.”
“No, not at all. It was only a short drive from London,” I said as we crossed the parquet floor of the entry hall, which was open to the story above. The soaring room was paneled in dark oak, and an oak staircase with hefty ornamental carvings on the banisters and spindles rose along the right-hand side.
“Excellent. Then perhaps you’d like to join me in the drawing room? We can have tea, and then you can see the etiquette guide.”
“Oh—I suppose that would be fine.” I wasn’t sure if looking at the manuscript right away was a good idea. I’d hoped to draw out the examination of it a bit to give me time to make inquiries about Mr. Mayhew, but I couldn’t turn her down. Perhaps I should’ve said I was tired and retreated to my room for a few hours, but
that wouldn’t have done any good either. I couldn’t ask about someone while I was supposedly resting in my room.
A wrinkle appeared on Lady Holt’s forehead. “Unless—”
“No, it’s fine. I’d love to see it now.” I handed my gloves, handbag, and hat to a hovering servant and followed Lady Holt into a sitting room furnished in pale green and gold, which felt light and open after the weighty oak entry. A set of French doors at the far end of the room were open, and the scent of roses and freshly cut grass wafted in on the light breeze.
“Come in, Miss Belgrave, and meet my sister, Serena Shires.”
A woman who looked to be about six or seven years younger than Lady Holt came across the room and nodded a greeting. “I’d shake your hand, but mine are smudged. If I’d known we were having guests, I would have tidied up.” Her figure was more padded than her sister’s, and no gray showed in her unruly brown curls, which were short and dark and sprang out around her face. Unlike Lady Holt’s fashionable dress, Serena wore a cotton smock over her plain dress. The smock was smeared with dark patches of what looked like dirt.
“I told you this morning.” Lady Holt’s clipped words didn’t seem to impact Serena.
“I forgot,” she said lightly and turned to me. “So sorry. I tend to get lost in my work.” Serena and I exchanged greetings—minus a handshake.
A frown creased Lady Holt’s long face. “And you haven’t even changed out of your work clothes, Serena.” Lady Holt looked to the writing desk at the side of the room. “I hope you haven’t ruined my manuscript.”
“I know better than to go near your manuscript. I popped in for a moment to look for the note I made last night after dinner.” She said to me, “I find ideas always come to me at the most inconvenient times. If I don’t write them down, they’re lost. I jotted it down on a scrap of paper. Maybe I took it upstairs after all.”