Death by Blackmail

by Beth Byers

  Death By Blackmail

  A Poison Ink Mystery

  Beth Byers

  Copyright © 2019 by Beth Byers, Amanda A. Allen

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  For my British Friends and their education on

  milk vs. cream

  and

  For Claire

  Thanks for your murderous thoughts. <3

  Contents

  Summary

  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

  Murder & The Heir Preview

  Also by Beth Byers

  Also by Amanda A. Allen

  Summary

  When Georgette watches a neighbor murdered over her book, she thinks the world has gone mad. With her second book on the market and mostly fiction, she expects things to go back to normal. Only another person dies. The deaths clarify that her path needs to be one that leaves her hometown, Bard’s Crook, behind.

  A decision that is further elucidated when she receives a blackmail letter. As Georgette deliberates what to do, she turns to her friend, Charles Aaron. Before she has even completed her explanation, another body falls. Has the blackmailer decided to ruin his victims by killing them instead of taking all their money? If so, is Georgette at risk? And will Georgette and her friends find the killer before all of her secrets out?

  Chapter 1

  GEORGETTE DOROTHY MARSH

  To say that the goddess Atë considered the village of Bard’s Crook her own private village was to put it mildly. If Atë wanted a temple, she’d have desired nothing more than the library-post office where Georgette Dorothy Marsh was pasting a smile on her face and pretending to enjoy the stories of the handsome Mr. Harrison Parker.

  So, when the goddess Guinevere, lady of true love, turned her eye on Bard’s Crook and then on Atë’s very favorite villager, Atë’s wily eye shifted with jealousy. Georgette was Atë’s. At the very moment when Guinevere was thinking how handsome Harrison Parker was and how delightful it would be if someone as attractive as the young Mr. Parker discovered Georgette’s loveliness, Atë was imagining someone appreciating Georgette’s other—more lasting—good qualities.

  Georgette was not, in fact, all that lovely. Both Atë and Georgette would have ignored Guinevere’s compliment. Neither of them were concerned with appearances. Both, in fact, were far more concerned with souls and hearts and the turn of one’s mind, though Georgette cared more about the quality of said soul, whereas Atë enjoyed the absurd and unique.

  Georgette had delicate features, medium brown hair, medium brown eyes, and a rather quiet face. She was, in fact, a bit of a puzzle. Or perhaps she was one of those Russian dolls with multitudes of layers. If you pulled away that first plain layer to find what lay beneath, you found a lively mind with a mischievous bent that melded perfectly with a kind heart.

  But when you pulled back that layer, you discovered that when Georgette let you into her heart enough to trust you, she relaxed and her eyes shone when she mentioned something amusing and you thought, “Those aren’t medium brown eyes, they’re honey-colored with rivers of gold.” Then you realized that her lips might be rather thin, but she did have pretty teeth when she smiled and her amusement lent a beauty to her face that wasn’t there in repose. Soon enough, you realized that her jumper covered a rather neat figure and her calves were quite delightfully turned.

  So, in the end, Georgette Dorothy Marsh was both completely plain and utterly entrancing, and only the goddess of mischief could appreciate the dichotomy of Miss Marsh. Perhaps, if you were a simple soul, you would say that Miss Marsh was—in fact—quite plain though tolerable enough. When viewed through the lens of appreciation and love, however, she was mesmerizing.

  Regardless of the way you viewed her, Georgette Marsh was a rather talented secret author. The secret nature of her status had Mrs. Virginia Baker scoffing when Georgette said quietly, “Mr. Parker, you are very good at setting a scene, and your character is certainly heroic, but I believe he might need to fail a little more often.”

  “How,” Mrs. Baker demanded, “is it heroic to fail?” She turned her shining, avaricious eyes on the handsome Mr. Parker and batted her lashes, but he didn’t notice. Her gaze narrowed and those bright, vibrant, angry eyes fixed on Mr. Parker with the fury of being unseen.

  At least by him, Georgette noticed, and the upset in Mrs. Baker’s eyes caused Georgette to stumble in her words. “Well,” she said, blinked a little stupidly, and then tried again, “Well—”

  Mrs. Baker scoffed, gathering Mr. Parker’s attention. She smiled at him through her lashes, all traces of anger vanishing.

  “Well,” Georgette started again.

  Only, the librarian, Miss Hallowton, cut in instead. “Every character needs an arc. This isn’t the Chronicles of the Man Who Always Won. No one wants to read that, I assure you.”

  Her sour note made Georgette flinch for poor Mr. Parker. Trusting someone with your stories for the first time was a painful endeavor. It left one’s heart in one’s throat, one’s stomach roiling, and a feeling of anxiety so intense, it was nearly possible to feel your blood moving through your veins. Georgette still struggled with the feeling even though she was working on her fifth book and her first two were generally well-received.

  Georgette patted Mr. Parker’s arm and said so quietly that few could hear her, “Perhaps if you put him in rather dire situations and make him struggle more through his journey. Mr. Holmes wouldn’t have been nearly so interesting without Professor Moriarty, and an excellent villain would do much to enliven your story, I think.”

  Mr. Parker’s gaze fixed on Georgette’s face and with the touch of Guinevere coloring his mind, he noted the gold in Georgette’s eyes. “Thank you, Miss Marsh. I had not thought of that.”

  “Yes well,” Miss Hallowton snapped. “Perhaps we should turn our attention to Mrs. Baker’s vignette. And perhaps this time she will have written something more compelling. We’ve wasted enough time listening to Miss Marsh speak on things she knows little about.”

  It seemed as though Miss Hallowton had reached a new level of sour, which was all the more confusing given that Miss Hallowton seemed to have things going better for her in the last weeks. Georgette flinched for the other writers. To be fair, however, Mrs. Baker was entirely unmoved by the insult.

  With a cheeky daring Georgette said, “I rather thought we were here to learn to be better writers, Miss Hallowton. No one expects our stories to be perfect.”

  “Yours certainly isn’t,” Miss Hallowton retorted. “That idiotic tale about a maid and the mischief of spoilt children is of interest to no one. If only we knew who Mr. Jones was—he would be quite useful to our little group.”

  “I rather enjoyed that one,” Marian, Georgette’s good friend, stated through a barely withheld giggle. “I assure you I laughed with all earnestness. I believe,” Marian added, “it is as good as anything that Mr. Jones has written.”

  Georgette closed her eyes and took in a deep breath to keep herself from boxing Marian’s ears.

  “Of course you did. You chase after Miss Marsh like a lost kitten looking for milk,” Miss Hallowton said. “I can’t se
e why you bother with her when there are those closer to your age to lark about with.”

  Marian gasped, and Georgette knew she was finished. “That is rather enough for today, I think. It’s nearly stopping time, and Miss Hallowton is certainly having a difficult day.”

  Miss Hallowton’s jaw dropped at Georgette’s audacity at taking over, and to be honest, Georgette’s mind was reeling from her actions. Usually Georgette only let herself speak her mind when she was certain of her audience. The consideration of moving was placing a freedom on Georgette’s mouth that she was not prepared to handle. Perhaps it was the idea that Mr. Aaron loved her. It had been a mere two weeks since he’d left Bard’s Crook, swearing to return and convince her his love was earnest, but Georgette wasn’t sure she believed he’d return.

  She was well aware that whatever village she moved to would have its own Miss Hallowtons and Mrs. Bakers, but the prospect of escaping this village was rather more…well, it was becoming more overwhelming than Georgette was prepared to handle. There was the excitement of perhaps new friends. Perhaps even friends that accepted her in all her plainness and, dare she risk it, as a writer? And then there were these momentary lapses when she unleashed her tongue and spoke her mind, her inner self ready to break the fetters of a lifetime of being held back and pushed down.

  “You have letters,” Miss Hallowton told Georgette. “One wasn’t marked with postage, and this isn’t a free service. If you want that letter, you’ll need to pay for it. Of all the cheek, sending a letter without a return address or postage. I declare, it is becoming something of an epidemic. This is the third time. You find whoever sent you that letter and explain the way the postal service works, if you please.”

  Georgette’s brows lifted as she took her own story and notes to cross to the counter where Miss Hallowton both checked out the book Georgette had placed on hold and gave her a parcel from her favorite tea supplier and two letters, including one from Mr. Aaron. She glanced over and found Marian collecting the plate she’d brought. It had been Marian’s turn to provide nibbles for the writing group, and her donation of shortbread and lavender biscuits had been quite welcome to override the flavor of Miss Hallowton’s sourness, along with the lovely tea she’d provided. The tea was, perhaps, the only reason Georgette hadn’t stormed out. One didn’t just abandon perfectly milky sweet tea, especially when it was an excellent offering, better than the scraps from the blending floor that Miss Hallowton had offered the last time.

  Georgette stepped from the library with a delighted goodbye, happy to escape. The spring day was chilled and grey, but Georgette loved the scent of rain over the carpet of green. She paused and breathed in deeply, waiting for Marian.

  Georgette glanced up and down the street, noting the passing of people she’d known since she was a child. Most of them, despite that passage of time, had very little idea of what went on in her head or even that she thought at all. Her reputation as the old maid and extraneous woman was not lost on her. She was, to most of them, a silly, unfortunate, plain woman with little to offer.

  “Miss Marsh,” Marian said as she stepped up next to Georgette. Marian looked at Georgette out of the corner of her eye with a wicked smirk.

  “Miss Parker,” Georgette replied, lips twitching.

  “Your uneducated opinions on writing are unwanted and you are held in contempt for daring to have someone write you a letter without the postage.”

  Georgette made an apologetic glance. “I believe this is my black tea blend with rose. Would you like to have some with me?”

  “I would indeed,” Marian replied happily, linking her arm through Georgette’s. “Unwanted kittens like myself must beg for both our tea and our milk.”

  “Don’t worry, sweet Marian,” Georgette told her, rather serious for a moment. “I shall always share my tea and milk with you.”

  Marian winked and then asked, “Do I see a letter from London?”

  Georgette felt a flush rise from her chest and down from her cheeks. “It’s certainly just about Josephine and the third Harper’s Bend story.”

  “That’s not what the letter says,” Marian told Georgette flatly. “I saw how he looked at you.”

  “I’m not what he thinks,” Georgette hissed. “I’m just…me.”

  “And I adore you for it,” Marian hissed back. Both of them paused to nod and wave at Mrs. Yardley. “He also adores you for it.”

  “I’m not beautiful. I might be all right with words, but I’m not…he’s…”

  Marian laughed and Georgette smacked her arm lightly.

  “I’ve been overlooked and extraneous my whole life, Marian.” Georgette’s voice was almost too low to be heard. “I’m not stupid about who he is. He’s attractive, has a business that is doing well in a world of financial troubles, he’s charming, and clever. I’m just me. I assume there are a half-dozen women who would happily marry him who are prettier and wittier and better in every way than I am.”

  “I think you’re lovely,” Marian said, “but the only one of those I’ll give you is prettier. I’m sure that Mr. Aaron knows exotic and fashionable women, and you aren’t those things. Of course, that’s why he appreciates you.”

  Georgette shook her head, squeezing Marian’s arm where they were linked as they caught sight of Mrs. Thornton stepping out of the tea shop.

  “Miss Parker, Miss Marsh.” Mrs. Thornton nodded once and then stepped into her auto with a, “Good evening to you.”

  “Good evening,” Georgette and Marian said in unison, and then Georgette continued. “I think I’m a passing fancy. I think he likes me well enough, but I think he’ll realize he regrets his offer. If I say yes, and he realizes later…” Georgette shook her head. “No.”

  Marian let Georgette descend into silence before speaking. “I think you are thinking too much. Are you going to open the letter?”

  With a long-suffering sigh, Georgette pulled the letter from her pocket and ran her finger under the edge. She unfolded the single sheet, a little disappointed it was so thin and further disappointed with herself that she’d let her emotions get wrapped up in the length of the letter.

  She read the letter. After the first line, she paused in her walk.

  “We can’t stop here,” Marian laughed. “We’re in the street, darling.”

  Georgette blinked stupidly at Marian and then gazed back down at the letter. Was it? Could it be?

  “Is it bad news?” Marian demanded as Georgette read the short note again. “If he is removing his offer, I will hunt him up in London and slaughter him, and then I will find Joseph and slaughter him as well. Joseph swore to me that Charles was fully earnest.”

  Georgette slowly shook her head and held out the offensive sheet. She had, it seemed, opened the incorrect letter. The one from Charles was secure in her pocket. The one she’d opened, read:

  “Miss Marsh,

  I know you’re the infamous and despised Joseph Jones. If you want to keep your secret, you’ll leave £10 in the copy of Local British Herbs and Wildflowers in the library in one fortnight exactly, by noon. If you are prepared to have your secrets shared, dare to disobey.

  Yrs. A Friend”

  “Is this…is this…is this a blackmail note?” Marian gasped.

  Chapter 2

  Georgette Dorothy Marsh

  The answer was, of course, all too obvious. Yes, it was a blackmail letter. Georgette had assumed the trouble with blackmail had ended with Miss Schmitz’s murder, which had occurred because of the blackmail occurring in Bard’s Crook. She’d thought the blackmailer, who hadn’t been discovered, would let out a sigh of relief and scurry back into his or her cave after the investigation ended with the capture of the killer. It seemed that Georgette was all too wrong.

  “How could anyone know?” Georgette demanded. “I haven’t said anything. You haven’t told anyone. There’s no reason for anyone to believe it was me who wrote Chronicles of Harper’s Bend.”

  Marian stared helplessly at Georgette who sta
red helplessly at the letter. How could they know? How could anyone know?

  She took in a long deep breath. She was being blackmailed. Ten pounds! That was so much money, even with the reversal in her fortunes since publishing her first book. She barely spent a pound for food in a month and considered that a luxury. Ten pounds? Her mind was skittering about frantically like a mouse trying to get away from the cat. How would she come up with so much at once? What would she do when everyone found out her secret? Would they turn on her? Would they run her out of town? A part of her doubted anyone would even believe it at all. What if she just…lied? Then it would be Georgette’s word against the blackmailer’s.

  Georgette didn’t think, however, that lying would work. She was Joseph Jones. She was the infamous author, and it would be easy enough to pin the truth on her if someone really wanted to do so.

  She walked towards her snug little cottage. Marian followed silently, for the first time actually seeming like a lost kitten. When Georgette opened the little gate, she had decided what she was going to do. It was with a gaze of goodbye that she looked at her home.

  She took in the trees at the back of her garden and remembered the way she’d sat under those trees since she was a little girl curling up with a book. She blinked at her newly painted front door. How she’d loved to walk up the path to her cottage with that merry door in front of her. The path was lined with stones that Georgette had helped her mother place. There was one that had G + M carved into it. Georgette paused by the stone. She hadn’t noticed it in years, long since Mama had died and left Georgette alone save for Eunice.