Valentine's Madness: A 1920s Historical Mystery Anthology

by Beth Byers

  “I received these flowers this morning, along with a note.” Rosemary explained, handing the envelope to Betty. “I’m sorry to say I took the liberty. You see, I thought the flowers were for me as I live at Number 8 Park Road. She watched while the other woman opened the card and read the note that had been meant for her all along. Betty’s eyes clouded over, and an unfathomable expression settled on her face.

  Vera reached into her clutch and produced the bundle of love letters. “We also found these in Rosemary’s attic. We thought you ought to have them back.” She held them out.

  The color continued to drain from Betty’s face as she stood on what Rosemary assessed as shaky legs. “The tea. Excuse me, won’t you?”

  “She’s positively flummoxed,” Vera hissed when Betty was out of hearing range.

  “Can you blame her?” Rosemary returned, then raised her voice so as to be heard over the rattle of tea cups. “Please don’t trouble yourself on our account.”

  Returning, Betty bumped the tea tray down next to the roses and collapsed onto her chair. “I never thought—never expected…but it is too late. Years too late. Oh, my head feels rather like a top. It spins and spins.”

  A talented artist must, by nature, be a reader of faces. Grief. Rosemary recognized the signs clearly, as she’d gazed into the face of that emotion in her mirror for months. Grief layered over with trepidation and a veneer of something she thought might be hope made up Betty’s expression.

  Vera had proposed this excursion into a petty mystery as a beguilement meant to draw Rosemary out of the house without thought for what it might mean to Betty.

  Utterly dismayed, Rosemary gently said, “You must think us a pair of insensitive shrews for landing on your front stoop unexpected and then dropping a brick on you. You’ve only to ask and we’ll go away again, but if it would help to tell the story, you’ll find us in possession of sympathetic ears.”

  Vera nodded in agreement, “I freely admit to being intrigued by the affair.”

  Betty’s face reddened as though she had taken the word for its baser meaning. “Won’t you tell us what happened all those years ago?” Vera appeared somewhat chagrined for the bout of gentle prying, but curiosity had gotten the best of her, and she couldn’t help herself.

  As it turned out, neither of them needed to pry, because Elizabeth was taken with the need to unburden herself and explained with no further prompting.

  “JLH is James Lancaster Harrington. As in the son of Earl Walter Harrington. I was a girl of no more than fifteen when I was walking along the river path one day and found him searching for one of the oars to his rowboat in the marsh along the bank. He looked absolutely ridiculous covered in mud from head to toe, and cursing like a sailor. I laughed so hard I fell into the water, and he gallantly fished me out.” Elizabeth paused, caught up in the memory.

  “James walked me home, and shyly asked if he could see me the next day.” A fond smile fluttered over Betty’s face and transformed it from careworn to lovely.

  “I said yes. Every day for the rest of the summer, we would meet down by the river. He rowed us in that boat for simply hours that summer. Other times, he would bring a picnic and we would just dangle our toes in the water while we talked about everything and nothing.”

  Now Rosemary wished she hadn’t asked to hear the story, for Betty’s joy in the retelling reminded her of similar moments with Andrew and brought the sorrow all too near.

  As she had no way of knowing the effect of her past, Betty continued on with her tale of young love.

  “We spoke of our childhoods, though we were but children ourselves still, I know that now. Our family circumstances differed greatly, as my father worked hard for modest means. Nevertheless, we were happy with our lot in life, though I shared with James that I harbored a secret wish to see the world.”

  Lost in the memory, Betty’s tone softened. “James spoke of wanting a large family, as did I. He told me about his oppressive father and the expectations set out for him. What I remember most is how passionately he declared his love and vowed to marry me. He pledged himself dedicated to making my dreams come true.”

  A tear brightened Elizabeth’s eye, and Rosemary leaned over to offer a delicate lace handkerchief from her skirt pocket. “It sounds very romantic, Betty. But obviously things didn’t work out like you’d planned.” She prompted gently.

  “No, they didn’t. The Earl got wind of our meetings and put his foot firmly down. He said that no son of his would marry a common woman like me, and he sent James away to boarding school to keep us apart. James wrote often, and for a time, the letters were enough. I waited for him, knowing in my heart that as soon as he was free, he would come back for me.”

  Betty’s distress was nearly palpable.

  “I waited because he made a promise to me, but after a few months, the letters stopped, and I never heard from him again. When my mother passed away and we were forced to move from Park Road, I thought it best to leave those old dreams behind.”

  Rosemary understood, better than anyone, how shutting out old memories sometimes felt like the only way to deal with sadness and pain. “That’s why you didn’t take the letters.”

  “Yes. That’s right. My current responsibilities leave no time for frivolities like love. I work a job three days a week and watch after my father, who is not getting on very well. I’m all he has.”

  “Surely, if James has repented the mistake of a callow, foolish youth, it might be worth hearing him out.”

  Vera’s assessing gaze took in the size of the room. She winced when Rosemary jabbed her with an elbow to keep her from mentioning there were mercenary reasons. Leave it to Vera to rate a man’s attractive qualities on whether or not he was flush.

  In the end, Betty would not be moved, and the two sleuths took their leave.

  Chapter Five

  “That was bittersweet,” Rosemary sighed when she and Vera were back in the car. “You can call yourself a proper detective now that we’ve seen the thing through to the end.”

  Vera snorted and protested, “You must be joking. That was no kind of ending.”

  “We can’t force her to take him back, Vera. That wouldn’t be proper.”

  “Do you think I care a whit about being proper?” Vera replied. “It’s clear as day she still loves him. She’s simply been through the wringer and doesn’t want to open up again. She just needs a little push.”

  Rosemary’s face flushed red, and she felt as though she were about to burst with frustration. While nothing could shake the years of friendship she and Vera shared, that didn’t mean they hadn’t had their rows. It also meant she could be completely honest, and that’s just what she decided to do. “Not everyone needs a push, Vera. You don’t always know what is best for someone else.”

  Taken aback, Vera’s eyes widened and a contrite expression replaced her stubborn one.

  “I truly am sorry for upsetting you, Rose, but I wasn’t actually speaking of you and Andrew. I was speaking from my own personal experience. I may not be a widow, technically, but I did lose the love of my life too, and I wish I hadn’t locked the pain of it all up inside.”

  Her turn to feel contrite, Rosemary softened. It wasn’t as if she had forgotten Vera’s loss—not by a long shot—but recent pain had crowded out older memories.

  Vera noted the look on her friend’s face, but preferring to remain well and clear of the doldrums, ignored it and continued. “I know you don’t like to talk about him, Rosie, but if you did, it might help you to move on with your life.”

  “Maybe I am simply not ready to move on just yet. It has only been just over six months, so I find it difficult to understand why people seem to think I should have found another husband by now. Sometimes I wonder if all the progress we women have been making is merely a facade. We have been trying to assert our independence, gained the right to have a voice and a vote, and yet still we’re looked down upon if we are of a certain age and unmarried.” Rosemary talked whi
le she drove, venting her frustrations, knowing her friend would listen and understand.

  “I would never suggest you ought to take up with another man so soon.” Vera said. “I am simply trying to give you the advice I ignored myself. Refusing to allow yourself to get mired down in your misery doesn’t have to mean getting remarried. Trust me—I still haven’t met another man who rates shackling myself to for the rest of my life.”

  Rosemary grinned, “As if you’d let anyone shackle you to begin with.”

  Vera laughed. “No, you are probably correct about that, dear one. But, we’re two different people. I have found there are other things that make life enjoyable besides romance. Now, you need to figure out what it is that makes you happy, and do it.”

  “And what about poor Betty?” Rosemary asked.

  “Betty doesn’t have to be poor Betty if she doesn’t want to be,” Vera pointed out. “And I don’t mean that in the literal sense—it wouldn’t matter if James Lancaster Harrington was a pauper; I feel in my heart that those two belong together. You and I, we can be each other’s Valentine this year. Perhaps it will lift both our spirits if we help someone else find theirs.”

  “Possibly so. We did not, however, question Betty thoroughly enough to determine the exact whereabouts of James's special spot.”

  “An oversight, to be sure. What do your crack detective skills suggest we do about our current conundrum?” Now that Vera had rallied Rosemary around to her side of things, she was eager to get a look at James.

  After a moment’s pondering, Rosemary said, “I shouldn’t think it would be that difficult to find, as the townhouse is near the Thames and there is a lovely path leading down to and along the river’s edge. Though I fail to see how you can possibly navigate nature in those shoes. You must borrow something more suitable before we set out on our mission.”

  “Dear Rosemary,” Vera said as the car rocked to a halt in front of the townhouse. “You should have informed me that wearing sensible shoes was part of being a detective. I might not have been so keen to take on the job had I known it came with frumpy feet.”

  “Suit yourself. I expect you’ll cut a fine figure hobbling along the path with your icepick heels poking into the soil.” In a lighter mood than she’d been all day, Rosemary sailed up the front steps and into the house, leaving Vera no other option but to follow and choose a pair of practical shoes.

  Several minutes of walking along the unpaved footpath proved Rosemary had been correct about the heels, but nothing would force Vera to voice the admission. Instead, she asked, “What shall we do when we find him? March right up and tell him where to find Betty, or sound him out to make sure his intentions are good?”

  Rosemary lifted a careless shoulder. “I see no reason why we cannot do both of those things.”

  Arms linked, the women watched for signs of James. Just as they began to wonder if they’d taken the wrong direction along the path, they came upon a man seated on a stone bench near an old pier with a rowboat tied up and waiting.

  Handsome, and hopeful, James sat patiently, and only the slightest tinge of disappointment marred his features when he saw two women instead of the one he hoped would come.

  “You’re Betty’s James, are you not?” Without introduction, Vera jumped right to the point.

  “Not at present, but I hope to be hers in the future. If she’ll have me, that is. Since you seem to know me already, might I ask your names?”

  Crestfallen to learn his beloved Betty had chosen not to give him a chance, James stood with the posture of a man beaten down by misfortune and made as if to bid the bearers of the news goodbye when Rosemary could no longer contain herself.

  “That’s it? You’re going to row away in your little boat and give up?” Hands on her hips and fire in her eye, Rosemary gave him what for. “And you have the nerve to wonder why she stood you up. If you were half the man she deserves, you would prostrate yourself upon her front stoop until she had no choice but to listen to whatever explanation you plan to offer for your absence.”

  “What use to explain?” he asked, anguish etched across his handsome face. “I shall come off looking like a losing prospect for bowing down to my father’s demands, but how could I offer Betty everything without an income?”

  “Your circumstances have since changed?”

  “They have. I am of the age where I am in control of my trust, only I can see now that it has come too late.”

  There are two things that can make a man feel as if he’s in the deep end of the ocean. One is tearful woman, and the other is hearing home truths in no uncertain terms. Rosemary hit him with the latter.

  “She loves you still, you great lout.”

  Vera’s interjection perked James up considerably. “She does?” Shoulders squared, he braved Rosemary’s ire and asked where he might find Betty. Armed with the information so helpfully provided by Vera, he thanked the two women and rushed off, presumably to make his amends.

  For the second time in the span of a week, Vera entered Rosemary’s house carrying a bouquet of roses. Except this time, they were a lovely shade of yellow. Yellow for friendship, yellow for joy.

  “Where did you get those?” Rosemary asked, setting down the paintbrush she’d been waving. Vera’s eyebrows shot up in pleasant surprise. Her friend was painting again, and that could only mean one thing: Rosemary was feeling a bit more like her old self.

  “I happened to arrive just as the delivery boy was ascending your front stoop. Wadsworth is rather furious with me, by the way.” Vera said, a mischievous smile playing across her lips. “I may have implied he was lying down on the job. I think his head nearly popped off with the strain of not firing a shot right back at me.”

  Rosemary wiped the paint off her hands and reached for the card nestled within the blooms. “It says: ‘Dear Rosemary and Vera, I can’t thank you enough for bringing James back to me. He said he’s never met women with more spunk than the two of you, and has made amends (though, I did make him work rather hard for it!). We’re eloping to the south of France, and are simply over the moon. I hope both of you find even half as much happiness as you’ve given me. Your friend, Betty.’”

  “See, Rosie, I told you those two were meant for one another!” Vera laughed.

  “You simply couldn’t resist rubbing it in my face, could you?” Rosemary retorted. “But, nonetheless, you were right, I have to admit. Just don’t let it go to your head.”

  Vera raised an eyebrow, “Of course not, dear one.”

  Rosemary didn’t believe her innocent expression for one second. “Now, come tell me what you think of this painting.” She indicated the canvas and Vera stepped carefully across the paint-spattered sheets that protected the sitting room rug. What she saw took her breath away. There, on the canvas, was a rendering of the river Thames, a little rowboat floating near the shore. Standing in front of it was Andrew, knee deep in the water and staring out into a brilliant sunset.

  “It’s beautiful,” Vera breathed, “Whatever made you decide to paint it?”

  Staring at the painting, a small smile played across Rosemary’s lips, “I finally decided it was time to look back on all the lovely memories of Andrew, instead of focusing on the negative. I’m considering turning the Lillywhite Investigations office into an art studio. Poor Mrs. Moore will probably find another post if I keep mucking up the parlor.”

  “I think that’s a fine idea, Rosie. Though, I have to say, I was rather hoping we might find another mystery to solve.”

  THE END

  If you enjoyed this story, the first book in the series is available here.

  A Party To Die For

  By Carolyn L. Dean

  Jazz and Gin Cozy Mysteries

  Chapter One

  “Eddie!”

  There was a muffled grunt from underneath the dark green 1929 Dusenberg jacked up in the center of the barely-heated garage. Two brown leather boots protruded from under the back fender.

  Apparently, the y
oung man in coveralls standing in the shop’s doorway and wiping the grease off a large crescent wrench didn’t consider the grunt enough of a response. “Eddie!” he shouted again, then gave a huff of irritation. His short, brown hair was ruffled in a complete lack of style, and his eyebrows were pulled together in frustration. “There’s someone here to see you.”

  “Tell them I’m busy. I can’t get this nut off…”

  There was a loud bang, then a sharp yelp of pain.

  “You okay?” The young man leaned over the fender, his expression one of concern.

  He got a bit-off curse word in reply. “Swell. Just swell.”

  “Ahem. I beg your pardon,” an icy voice intoned near the door to the office, “but I was hoping to have my business concluded quickly. Is Eddie available or not?” The tall man in an elegant gray suit looked around as if he was worried he might get dirt on his impeccable collar and cuffs. Under his thin mustache, narrow lips pressed together in obvious impatience.

  With a sudden shove, the mechanic rolled out from underneath the car, cradling one hand with the other. Blood trickled from two knuckles.

  “Yeah, what do you want?”

  “You’re Eddie?” His face was as shocked as the tone he used for his question.

  The curvy woman in the leather boots pulled herself to her feet, still cradling her hurt hand. Her mop of dark curls barely came up to the man’s shoulder.

  “George, can you get me some iodine and some gauze?” she asked the other mechanic, and he strode off, smiling at the interaction he’d just seen.

  The elegant man shifted from foot to foot. “Um…” he said, then seemed to gather his thoughts. “My name is Thomas Thurston, and my Lincoln is having some issues. I was told the best mechanic here today is a man called Eddie.”