by Beth Byers
Inconvenient Murder
Moonlight Murder
Bewitched Murder
Presidium Vignettes (with Rue Hallow)
Prague Murder
Paris Murder
Murder By Degrees
Chapter One of Death by the Book
A new historical mystery series
GEORGETTE MARSH
Georgette Dorothy Marsh stared at the statement from her bank with a dawning horror. The dividends had been falling, but this…this wasn’t livable. She bit down on the inside of her lip and swallowed frantically. What was she going to do? Tears were burning in the back of her eyes, and her heart was racing frantically.
There wasn’t enough for—for—anything. Not for cream for her tea or resoling her shoes or firewood for the winter. Georgette glanced out the window, remembered it was spring, and realized that something must be done.
Something, but what?
“Miss?” Eunice said from the doorway, “the tea at Mrs. Wilkes is this afternoon. You asked me to remind you.”
Georgette nodded, frantically trying to hide her tears from her maid, but the servant had known Georgette since the day of her birth, caring for her from her infancy to the current day.
“What has happened?”
“The…the dividends,” Georgette breathed. She didn’t have enough air to speak clearly. “The dividends. It’s not enough.”
Eunice’s head cocked as she examined her mistress and then she said, “Something must be done.”
“But what?” Georgette asked, biting down on her lip again. Hard.
CHARLES AARON
“Uncle?”
Charles Aaron glanced up from the stack of papers on his desk at his nephew some weeks after Georgette Marsh had written her book in a fury of desperation. It was Robert Aaron who had discovered the book, and it was Charles Aaron who would give it life.
Robert had been working at Aaron & Luther Publishing House for a year before Georgette’s book appeared in the mail, and he got that thrill of excitement every time he found a book that had a touch of brilliance. It was the very feeling that had Charles himself pursuing a career in publishing and eventually creating his own firm.
It didn’t seem to matter that Charles had his long history of discovering authors and their books. Familiarity had most definitely not led to contempt. He had learned that some of the books he found would speak only to him. Often, however, some he loved would become best sellers. With the best sellers, Charles felt he was sharing a delightful secret with the world. There was magic in discovering a new writer. A contagious sort of magic that had infected Robert. There was nothing that Charles enjoyed more than hearing someone recommend a book he’d published to another.
“You’ve found something?”
Robert shrugged, but he also handed the manuscript over a smile right on the edge of his lips and shining eyes that flicked to the manuscript over and over again. “Yes, I think so.” He wasn’t confident enough yet to feel certain, but Charles had noticed for some time that Robert was getting closer and closer to no longer needing anyone to guide him.
“I’ll look it over soon.”
It was the end of the day and Charles had a headache building behind his eyes. He always did on the days when he had to deal with the bestseller Thomas Spencer. He was too successful for his own good and expected any publishing company to bend entirely to his will.
Robert watched Charles load the manuscript into his satchel, bouncing just a little before he pulled back and cleared his throat. The boy—man, Charles supposed—smoothed his suit, flashed a grin, and left the office. Leaving for the day wasn’t a bad plan. He took his satchel and—as usual—had dinner at his club before retiring to a corner of the room with an overstuffed armchair, an Old-Fashioned, and his pipe.
Charles glanced around the club, noting the other regulars. Most of them were bachelors who found it easier to eat at the club than to employ a cook. Every once in a while there was a family man who’d escaped the house for an evening with the gents, but for the most part—it was bachelors like himself.
When Charles opened the neat pages of ‘Joseph Jones’s The Chronicles of Harper’s Bend, he intended to read only a small portion of the book. To get a feel for what Robert had seen and perhaps determine whether it was worth a more thorough look. After a few pages, Charles decided upon just a few more. A few more pages after that, and he left his club to return home and finish the book by his own fire.
It might have been summer, but they were also in the middle of a ferocious storm. Charles preferred the crackle of fire wherever possible when he read, as well as a good cup of tea. There was no question that the book was well done. There was no question that Charles would be contacting the author and making an offer on the book. The Chronicles of Harper’s Bend was, in fact, so captivating, he couldn’t quite decide whether Joseph Jones was mocking the small towns of England or immortalizing them.
Either way, it was quietly sarcastic and so true to the little village that raised Charles Aaron that he felt he might turn the page and discover the old woman who’d lived next door to his parents or the vicar of the church he’d attended as a boy. Charles felt as though he knew the people stepping off the pages.
Yes, Charles thought, yes. This one, he thought, this would be a best seller. Charles could feel it in his bones. He tapped out his pipe into the ashtray. This would be one of those books he looked back on with pride at having been the first to know that Joseph Jones was the next big thing. Despite the lateness of the hour, Charles approached his bedroom with an energized delight. A letter would be going out to Joseph Jones in the morning.
GEORGETTE MARSH
It was on the very night that Charles read the Chronicles that Miss Georgette Dorothy Marsh paced, once again, in front of her fireplace. The wind whipped through the town of Bard’s Crook sending a flurry of leaves swirling around the graves in the small churchyard and then shooing them down to a small lane off of High Street where the elderly Mrs. Henry Parker had been awake for some time. She had woken worried over her granddaughter who was recovering too slowly from the measles.
The wind rushed through the cottages at the end of the lane, causing the gate at the Wilkes house to rattle. Dr. Wilkes and his wife were curled up together in their bed sharing warmth in the face of the changing weather. A couple much in love, snuggling into their beds on a windy evening was a joy for them both.
The leaves settled into a pile in the corner of the picket fence right at the very last cottage on that lane of Miss Georgette Dorothy Marsh. Throughout most of Bard’s Crook, people were sleeping. Their hot water bottles were at the ends of their beds, their blankets were piled high, and they went to bed prepared for another day. The unseasonable chill had more than one household enjoying a warm cup of milk at bedtime, though not Miss Marsh’s economizing household.
Miss Marsh, unlike the others, was not asleep. She didn’t have a fire as she was quite at the end of her income and every adjustment must be made. If she were going to be honest with herself, and she very much didn’t want to be—she was past the end of her income. Her account had become overdraft, her dividends had dried up, and it might be time to recognize that her last-ditch effort of writing a book about her neighbors had not been successful.
“Miss Georgie,” Eunice said, “I can hear you. You’ll catch something dreadful if you don’t sleep.” The sound of muttering chased Georgie, who had little doubt Eunice was complaining about catching something dreadful herself.
“I’m sorry, Eunice,” Georgie called. “I—” Georgie opened the door to her bedroom and faced the woman. She had worked for Mr. and Mrs. Marsh when Georgie had been born and in all the years of loss and change, Eunice had never left Georgie. Even now when the economies made them both uncomfortable. “Perhaps—”
“It’ll be all right in the end, Miss Georgie. Now to bed with you.”
Georgette did not, however, go to bed. Instead, she pulled out her pen and paper and lis
ted all of the things she might do to further economize. They had a kitchen garden already. They did their own mending and did not buy new clothes. They had one hen and were considering adding more to sell the eggs, though Georgette had to recognize that she rather feared chickens. It was their eyes. Those beady, cold eyes.
Georgie shivered and refused to further consider hens. Perhaps she could tutor someone? She thought about those she knew and realized that no one in Bard’s Crook would hire the quiet Georgette Dorothy Marsh to influence their children. The village’s wallflower and cipher? Hardly a legitimate option for any caring parent. Georgette was all too aware of what her neighbors thought of her. She rose again, pacing more quietly as she considered and rejected her options.
Georgie paced until quite late and then sat down with her pen and paper and wondered if she should try again with her writing. Something else. Something with more imagination. She had felt she had little imagination when she’d begun the story but she’d quite been filled with it by the end of her book.
When she’d started The Chronicles of Harper’s Bend, she had been more desperate than desirous of a career in writing. Once again, she recognized that she must do something and she wasn’t well-suited to anything but writing. There were no typist jobs in Bard’s Crook, no secretarial work. The time when rich men paid for companions for their wives or elderly mothers was over, and the whole of the world was struggling to survive, Georgette included.
She’d thought of going to London for work, but if she left her snug little cottage, she’d have to pay for lodging elsewhere. Georgie sighed into her palm and then went to bed. There was little else to do at that moment. Something, however, must be done.
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Copyright © 2019 by Beth Byers, Amanda A. Allen
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