A Deadly Endowment

Book 7: Lady and Lady's Maid Mystery

by Alyssa Maxwell

Genres: Historical Mysteries

Synopsis

Set among the landed gentry of post-WWI England and perfect for fans of Downton Abbey, Alyssa Maxwell's latest historical mystery finds sleuthing duo Lady Phoebe Renshaw and her lady's maid, Eva Huntford, hunting a killer after the decision to open Foxwood Hall for guided tours turns deadly...
To make ends meet, Lady Phoebe Renshaw and her lady's maid, Eva Huntford, have decided to open up Foxwood Hall to guided public tours. Not everyone is pleased about it--even to the point of committing murder...
The lean times following the Great War continue to require creative solutions for England's noble class. But Lady Phoebe's proposal to open up the Renshaw estate to guided tours for additional income strikes many in the family as a "vulgar enterprise." Phoebe's grandfather, the Earl of Wroxly, however, reluctantly concedes the necessity.
Their first tour group consists of members of the Historical Society, a magazine writer, and a flock of students. It's a large group for Phoebe, her sister Amelia, and Eva to manage, and when the widow Arvina Bell goes missing, Eva goes in search of her--only to find her in the library, strangled with a silken drapery cord.
The schoolchildren are promptly sent home, but the members of the Historical Society--many of whom also wandered off at times--remain for interrogation. There is also, curiously, a framed photo missing from the library. As the police hastily zero in on a suspect, Phoebe and Eva weigh the clues. Does the crime have to do with rumors of hidden treasure at Foxwood Hall? But they must make haste to solve the widow's murder--before someone else becomes history...

Release date: December 28, 2021

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

CHAPTER 1

The Cotswolds, England, May 1921

 

Sometimes a woman had to stand alone and do what needed to be done regardless of what others thought of her. Regardless of their refusal to rally around her. Luckily for Phoebe Renshaw, such was not the case. Not entirely.

But even knowing she had an ally or two didn’t make sitting down to breakfast that Friday morning any easier. The family was using the Petit Salon today rather than the dining room, which had been tidied and readied for today’s experimental event. The Petit Salon was among her favorite rooms at Foxwood Hall. However, today, even the cheerfulness of its pale green walls, crisp white wainscoting, and the bay of windows overlooking the south gardens, a happy circumstance owing to the room being tucked into the turret of the original portion of the house, failed to calm her nerves. Likewise, the china service gracing the table, a unique design incorporating the Wroxly crest within a pastoral Cotswold setting, commissioned by Phoebe and her siblings as a gift for their grandparents’ anniversary, did little to lift her spirits.

She put off facing the rest of the family as long as she could by going straight to the sideboard and selecting a light variety of fruit and grilled tomatoes. At the last minute she scooped a generous portion of kedgeree, a curried mixture of fish, eggs, and rice, onto her plate. She would need to keep up her strength.

There was nothing for it now but to take her seat at the table. “Good morning, everyone. Grams, Grampapa. How are you today?”

“Quite well, thank you, dear.” Grampapa, the Earl of Wroxly, came to his feet and offered her a kindly smile, which Phoebe eagerly returned, as Douglas, the footman, held her chair for her. Grampapa resumed his seat. Her brother, Fox, had stood as well, but only because Grampapa insisted a gentleman always stood to greet a lady. As for the others around the table . . .

Grams pinched her lips, sparing Phoebe the merest of nods. Once he resumed his seat, sixteen-year-old Fox grunted and dug with vigor into his scrambled eggs and black pudding, as if perhaps there were precious jewels hiding within their depths. And Julia . . .

Phoebe’s eldest sister, the undisputed beauty of the family, raised her perfect chin, flared her delicate nose, and from beneath her carefully delineated eyebrows pierced Phoebe with a sapphire-blue glare obviously meant to quash any further attempt Phoebe might make at pleasantries.

She retaliated by turning to Amelia. “All ready for today?”

“I’m so excited. I can hardly wait to put your plan in action, Phoebe.” Her younger sister, eighteen now and newly graduated from the local finishing school, somehow managed to convey a youthful exuberance combined with the self-assured poise of a grown woman. She said to their grandmother, “You’ll soon see, Grams, that Phoebe’s idea of opening the house to tours will help the villagers and the tenant farmers, and bring enjoyment to countless more. After all, if we’re merely the custodians of this estate, as darling Grampapa is always saying, why should we keep it all to ourselves?”

Phoebe beamed at her from across the table.

Owen Seabright had said as much last night when Phoebe spoke with him on the telephone, the crackling of the wires across the many miles between them unable to strip the warmth and reassurance from his voice. She feared she had come to depend on him rather too much in the past year, a circumstance that gave her pause. A woman of this modern age should be able to stand on her own two feet, be resilient and astute in her own right, and not need to go running to a man whenever difficulties arose.

Then again, he had telephoned her—not the other way around—to wish her luck and congratulate her, again, on her ingenuity in facing a growing problem head-on. He wished he could be here today, but as Phoebe well knew, his business concerns kept him in Yorkshire for the moment. She would certainly not have him drop pressing matters at his woolen mills to run down to Little Barlow and hold her hand. However much she enjoyed holding hands with him.

That left her and Amelia to face down the opposition together. “Thank you, Amellie. I could not have put it better myself.”

To that, Fox snorted. Julia scowled. Grams huffed and placed her napkin beside her plate, a signal that had Douglas circling the table to gently slide back her chair as she unfolded her nearly six-foot length. “I suppose we’ll see, won’t we? Today may be the first and last day of these so-called tours.” Then, under her breath, but still clearly audible, “One can only hope.”

How Phoebe loathed making Grams unhappy, but she simply couldn’t sit idly by while the rest of the world sped forward, steadfastly leaving Foxwood Hall, and those who occupied it, in a quagmire of old-world traditions that no longer served any good purpose. The estate’s function had always been to help support the village of Little Barlow and surrounding farms; it must continue to do so even if it meant tucking a bit of one’s pride into one’s pocket.

Chin up, shoulders straight, Grams swept from the Petit Salon at a sedate pace, probably resisting the urge to storm out. But that would be undignified, and, of all the virtues, Grams held dignity in highest esteem. Once the trailing hems of her morning gown had cleared the threshold, Grampapa reached his hand out to Phoebe. She leaned toward him to place her hand in his.

“Don’t take your grandmother’s displeasure too much to heart, my dear. She’ll come around.”

“Have you come around, Grampapa?” She harbored no doubts as to his initial sentiments toward her plan. And she understood their reservations perfectly. Allowing strangers to troop through the house, gawking and staring at family heirlooms, after paying a fee for the privilege of doing so? Money, in exchange for a glimpse into the private life of an earl and his family? The outlandishness of such a notion had nearly given Grams the vapors, and Grams had never suffered an attack of the vapors in her life. She had put her foot down and adamantly forbade it; had refused to hear another word about it. Meanwhile, at the time, Grampapa had remained quiet. Contemplative. A bit brooding. And then . . .

“I do see its merit,” he had quietly ventured a fortnight ago, and then fell silent while Grams had launched another argumentative assault on why such a vulgarity must never, could never, be permitted at Foxwood Hall. While Grams had raged on, Grampapa had taken Phoebe’s hand in both of his wide, very reassuring ones and whispered, “I shall think on it, and let you know.”

For the next week there hadn’t been another word said about the matter. Even Grams had carried on as if nothing had ever been amiss. Fox, home for a brief school holiday, had made himself scarce. Julia had kept herself busy. Phoebe had almost been content to let the matter drop. And then Grampapa had made his decision.

“It’s certainly not the ideal solution, but circumstances these days are less than ideal, aren’t they? The tenant farms need repairs. The village businesses need a new influx of visitors. And money isn’t what it was before the war.”

Thus the battle lines had been drawn, with Phoebe, Amelia, and Grampapa on one side, and Grams, Julia, and Fox firmly entrenched on the other. Would today end the war, or escalate it?

“Tourists . . . in our home. Good heavens, what next?” Julia drained her teacup and came to her feet, Douglas arriving at her chair almost too late to assist her. “Shall we open the dining room as a stopover for travelers? I’ve a good mind to take little Charles and leave. Go to Lyndale Park.” She patted the perfect sweep of blond hair framing her face. “It’s becoming more and more apparent that’s where we belong.”

“Oh, Julia, don’t be like that,” Amelia pleaded, truly taken aback at the threat. If Julia was the beautiful one of the family, Amelia claimed the distinction of sweetest. Ingenuous and trusting, Amelia believed the best of someone until proven wrong, and her hazel eyes, honey-blond hair, and lovely complexion mirrored her agreeable nature. But all that didn’t mean she wouldn’t speak up for herself whenever she deemed it necessary. “Charles belongs here, with all of us. He needs his aunties and uncle, and Grams and Grampapa, and we need him. I shall be wretched if you take him away. You mustn’t do it, Julia. Promise you won’t.”

Charles Gilbert Townsend had been born on the eighth of January that year, the longed-for son that had settled the matter of who would inherit Julia’s deceased husband’s title and estate. His arrival into the world had also settled Julia’s own inheritance, in question all those months since her husband’s death. Whether she remarried or not, she would never need worry about the future, could lead an independent and luxurious life. Charles was now Viscount Annondale, with an estate called Lyndale Park in Staffordshire, a town house in London, and several manufactories that produced both automobile and aeroplane engines. Julia’s child would never lack for anything.

Except, perhaps, his Renshaw relatives, should Julia make good on her threat. Phoebe wished to add her protests to Amelia’s, but knew better than to utter a word. Julia often liked to do the exact opposite of Phoebe’s expressed desires. But if Julia was the beautiful sister, and Amelia the sweet sister, Phoebe had learned, in the years since their father had died in the Great War, that she was the sister who recognized a problem for what it was and refused to sit still until a solution had been found. Hence today’s endeavor.

“Exams or no, I’ll be happy to get back to school. That’s all I can say.” Fox shoveled a last, heaping forkful of eggs and sausages into his mouth, realized his lack of decorum, and darted a glance at Grampapa. With a gulp he swallowed it all down, attempting to hide his indiscretion behind his napkin. “But since that won’t be until Sunday night, I’d like to take Fairfax on an especially long walk today.” He darted another glance at Grampapa from beneath a shock of tawny hair. “If that would be all right, sir?”

Fairfax, another newish member of the Renshaw family, was a Staffordshire bull terrier they had adopted back in the fall. Still a puppy at heart, he had grown to nearly full size, being all muscle and sinew and boundless energy.

“It would,” Grampapa said with an approving nod. “Fairfax love his walks and I think you could both use a good jaunt about the place. Why not take him on a round of the tenant farms and see if there are new repairs to be added to the list after the recent rains.” Grampapa could be strict with Fox—far stricter than he ever was with Phoebe and her sisters—but he also understood when a sixteen-year-old boy needed to be made to feel like a man, and a useful one, at that. Fox would be Earl of Wroxly someday . . . a thought Phoebe never liked to contemplate, for the loss it would mean to them all.

Her brother hurried away and Grampapa turned his attention back to Phoebe and Amelia. “Well, you two, you’d best go prepare.”

Amelia clapped her hands together once and sprang up from her chair. With a little squeal of glee, she grabbed Phoebe’s hand, drew her to her feet, and practically hauled her from the room. “This is going to be such fun.”

* * *

Eva Huntford stood behind Lady Phoebe in front of the tall mirror in her lady’s bedroom and put the finishing touches on her lovely strawberry-gold hair, coiled in a simple French twist held by a colorfully enameled comb in the shape of a hummingbird. Lady Phoebe had suggested the ornament, saying its added sparkle of semiprecious stones would serve as a beacon to keep today’s visitors following her throughout the downstairs rooms of the house.

“But in the event they begin to wander off, it’s up to you and Amelia to herd them back to the group.” A note of worry tinged Lady Phoebe’s voice. “We can’t have strays meandering here and there, or Grams will put an end to this for good—Grampapa or no Grampapa.”

“Between the three of us we shouldn’t have a problem.” Eva smoothed the shawl collar that draped over Lady Phoebe’s shoulders, the very latest styling of embroidered lawn, over a yellow silk voile dress that barely reached her calves. All the Renshaw sisters had pretty, well-shaped legs flattered by the current trend of rising hems. “You look lovely, my lady. No one will want to stray once they’ve caught sight of you.” She turned to Phoebe’s younger sister, Amelia, in violet satin with a tapering, tiered skirt. “Perfect,” Eva assessed. “I’d say you’re both ready. Oh, and listen! Do I hear motorcars approaching?”

Before any of them could peek out the window, Julia appeared in the doorway. Her maid, a hale and fiercely devoted Swiss woman named Hetta, stood behind her in the corridor holding baby Charles. “We going out for the duration. We’ll duck out the service entrance so your gawkers won’t be tempted to snap pictures of us.”

Amelia brushed past her. “There’s my nephew and godson.” She tickled Charles beneath his chubby chin, eliciting a round of high-pitched giggles. “Make sure you keep him warm.”

“You saw him before breakfast, so don’t make it sound like it’s been ages.” Julia gave a roll of her eyes. “And I do know how to take care of my son, thank you.”

“Ja, as do I,” Hetta added for good measure.

Lady Amelia shrugged as she offered Charles her forefinger, which he grabbed with enthusiasm and tugged toward his mouth. The sound of tires on the driveway reverberated from outside.

Lady Phoebe exited the bedroom, kissed her nephew on the brow, and headed for the stairs. “That’ll be our guests arriving.”

That sent Eva and the two sisters hurrying downstairs to the Great Hall, where Phoebe planned to begin the tour once Eva had greeted their guests outside. Mr. Giles, Foxwood Hall’s longtime butler, stood ready to admit them. The great door opened . . .

Outside on the drive, a good dozen schoolchildren were piling out from a rickety motor bus that surely hailed from well before the Great War. They were from the village school, between ten and twelve years old, and, goodness, their voices echoed against the house as they laughed and shouted with the excitement of having left the confines of the classroom for the morning. Their teacher, a young woman whose thin form swam within a shapeless skirt and jumper ensemble, her hair tucked up beneath a kind of beret, called out instructions in her attempt to quiet them. Her efforts had little effect. It seemed the outdoors, the trip from school, and the prospect of actually entering an earl’s home—not through the servants’ entrance some of their parents might frequent, but the very same door the earl himself used—proved too much for her.

“Oh, dear,” Lady Phoebe murmured, “what have I done?”

“I’ll go out now. Perhaps I can calm them down.” They had agreed beforehand that Eva would explain the details of the exterior of the house and the surrounding park. She strode out to the sun-strewn forecourt, only to be engulfed in a maelstrom of voices and motion.

Several children were skipping along the front of the house, stopping here and there to examine the sculpted foliage or jumping up to peek into windows. Others made a game of kicking up showers of carefully raked gravel. A particularly errant pair of boys was tossing said gravel into the basin of the fountain to see who could raise the highest splash.

Eva peered out over the distant rolling hills, half shaded by steep banks of clouds, and reminded herself they would all be going home in an hour or two.

“Children,” she called, and held her arms out as if in a welcoming embrace meant to gather them around her. To her utter surprise, the gesture worked, and she found herself surrounded by the small but high-spirited horde. “Good morning, everyone, and welcome to Foxwood Hall.”

This met with an immediate question from a redhaired girl standing in front. “You’re not Lady Phoebe, are you?” It was more of an accusation, really, than a question.

“You’re quite right, I am not,” Eva responded without missing a beat, knowing full well she could lose the esteem of these children with the faintest show of hesitation. “I am Miss Huntford, Lady Phoebe’s and Lady Amelia’s personal maid, and I’ll be helping with the tour. Miss Carmichael, thank you for bringing your class today.”

The teacher, who had held the position only for this past year, offered her a withering look. “They’re very excited, as you can see.” She laughed at the understatement of her own comment and cast a doubtful gaze at her charges. Then, pulling straighter, she seemed to gather her wits and her fortitude. “Children, it’s time to collect ourselves. We cannot enter the Earl and Countess of Wroxly’s home unless we promise to be quiet and orderly. You don’t wish to climb back into the motor bus and return to school, do you?”

Ah. This had the desired effect, and within moments the children had formed two straight lines, their lips compressed with subdued enthusiasm. The resulting quiet was heavenly, and allowed the chatters of finches and sparrows, the patter of a woodpecker, and the distant cry of a kite to fill the morning air. Eva even thought she heard, from somewhere on the other side of the house, Fairfax’s happy barking. She hoped the children’s newfound composure would last.

“We’ll wait here for the others to arrive,” she told them, a bit of information that elicited muffled groans of impatience. This caused her an instant’s worry that she had lost their cooperation, yet she understood their eagerness. How many children of farmers, craftsmen, and laborers ever had the chance to walk through a front door such as the one before them now, manned by a butler, no less, and see with their own eyes how the upper class lived? One might think such an experience would engender envy and perhaps even resentment, but Eva knew there existed in the local community a deep pride in their earl and his family, as if they, too, were pa