A Devious Death

Book 3: Lady and Lady's Maid Mystery

by Alyssa Maxwell

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

In the sobering yet hopeful years following the First World War, Lady Phoebe Renshaw and her lady's maid, Eva Huntford, find their summer plans marred by an instance of murder . . .

Phoebe and her sister Julia are eager for a summer getaway at High Head Lodge, the newly purchased estate of their cousin Regina. But they are not the only houseguests. Regina's odd friend, Olive, is far from friendly, and Regina's mother and brother—bitter over the unequal distribution of her father's inheritance—have descended on the house to confront Regina.

In addition to the family tension, Eva is increasingly suspicious of Lady Julia's new maid. She questions Miss Stanley's loyalty and integrity, wondering why she left her former employer so suddenly. And why does Regina seem ill at ease around the maid, as if they were previously acquainted? Everyone, it appears, is on edge.

But things go from tense to tragic when their hostess meets an untimely end—mysteriously murdered in her bed with no signs of struggle. Now, with suspects in every room, Lady Phoebe and Eva must uncover secrets hidden behind closed doors—before a killer ensures they never leave High Head Lodge . . . alive.

Release date: December 28, 2017

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 305

Sample

August 1919

“Well, it certainly isn’t Foxwood Hall.”

Phoebe Renshaw regarded her elder sister, Julia, as she leaned to peer out the open window of their grandfather’s Rolls-Royce. A gravel driveway snaked out before the motorcar, rising to meet the open forecourt of their destination, a Jacobean manor house whose gables and chimneys stood proud against an unblemished morning sky.

As Fulton, their chauffeur, negotiated a bend shaded by a sweet chestnut no longer in flower, Phoebe hunched lower in the seat to gaze out the windscreen. She admired the graceful lines of the twin bowed windows that spanned the ground and first floors on either side of an arched front doorway. “I’ll grant you Foxwood Hall would dwarf it, but I think it’s lovely. I do wonder, though, how Regina was able to afford the place.”

“One imagines her father made generous arrangements for her in his will.”

“Perhaps, but surely Hastings, as the heir, oversees her accounts. I have a difficult time imagining him allowing his sister this much financial freedom.”

“Yes, well, what Regina wants, Regina usually manages to get.” Julia sat back with a sigh. “Besides, you misunderstand me. The house could be a tent for all I care. I’m just so thrilled to be away from Foxwood—I cannot even tell you. No restrictions, no little brother to contend with. When does Fox go back to school?” Her eyebrows converged above her midnight-blue eyes. She had taken to darkening her brows from their natural blond, and they stood out boldly against her flawless skin.

“Fox returns to Eton in a couple of weeks.” Phoebe looked forward to it. As much as she loved her fifteen-year-old brother, she found she didn’t particularly like him these days. He’d developed a defiant streak that reminded her of . . . well . . . of Julia. “Perhaps if you hadn’t disappeared without a word in London, Grams wouldn’t have kept you at home these past several weeks.”

Julia compressed her lips and skewed them to one side in a show of bitterness. “What choice did I have? But it wasn’t so much my disappearing that vexed her, as my having turned down Arthur Radbourne.” She breathed in heavily and let it out slowly. “Grams and her eligible bachelors. I don’t care how many millions he’s got. He has an underbite and he’s flatulent.”

Phoebe chuckled. “Oh, Julia.”

“The underbite I could overlook, but the other? Thank you, no. I had no choice but to disappear for a few days so he’d finally take no for an answer.”

“Still, you might have telephoned home to let them know where you were. Grams and Grampapa were worried. Where did you go, by the way? You’ve never told me.”

“Never you mind; it’s best you don’t know.” To Phoebe’s disappointment, Julia’s face became shuttered, indicating an end to the conversation. She gazed out at the edifice fast filling the motorcar’s windscreen. “I cannot for the life of me understand why anyone—especially Cousin Regina—would want to buy a relic like this nowadays. It’s positively medieval. Not to mention tucked away where nothing exciting ever happens.” Before Phoebe could get a word in, Julia laughed. “The events of last spring and Christmas aside, of course.”

Yes, those events could hardly be considered unexciting.

“I’m sure Regina wanted a place where she could quietly grieve for her father.” Phoebe frowned. Regina’s father, Basil Brockhurst, was her mother’s cousin, making Regina and her brother, Hastings, second cousins to Phoebe and her siblings. Basil, Lord Mandeville, had expired of heart failure not quite a month ago, at the relatively young age of sixty. Regina must surely be wretched. Phoebe and Julia’s own grandfather suffered ailments of the heart as well. Cousin Basil’s passing, tragic in itself, had been a stark reminder of life’s all too precarious nature. If anything happened to darling Grampapa . . . First Mama, years ago when they were young, then Papa during the war . . . Phoebe didn’t think she could bear another loss any time soon.

“I can’t think why she invited us.” Julia assumed a bored expression. “It’s not as though we’re her dearest friends. One supposes she did so out of convenience, seeing how close Foxwood Hall is to here. Once she tires of us, she can send us packing readily enough.”

“Really, Julia, must you always be so cynical? I’m sure Regina had no such thought.” When Julia offered one of her cavalier shrugs, Phoebe shook her head and allowed herself a small smile. At least they weren’t sniping at each other, as they had in the past.

These several years since Papa died had been contentious ones, with Phoebe often feeling as though she had to justify her very existence to her beautiful, accomplished elder sister. The worst of it was, she never could figure out why her sister seemed to abhor her so thoroughly. But last April brought events at which even Julia couldn’t shrug; they’d very nearly lost their younger sister, Amelia, and that had brought about a miraculous mellowing of Julia’s acerbic self-importance. Phoebe still wouldn’t term their relationship a close one, but a cordial one, yes, and she counted that as a huge improvement and quite a relief.

The motorcar rolled to a stop in front of the manor’s entrance, arched in the gothic fashion and framed in thick granite casing. A second motorcar carrying their two lady’s maids and their luggage had turned onto the service driveway that took them around back to the servants’ entrance.

Fulton opened the rear passenger door, but Phoebe hesitated before sliding out. “Anyway, we’ll find out why Regina invited us soon enough. Here she is now.”

The front door had opened and Regina Brockhurst stepped out wearing stunning pink-and-purple crepe de chine with gold metallic trim. The garment rippled with the breeze like the petals of an exotic flower while the gold shimmered warmly in the sun. Her abundant, inky black hair was swept up in an arrangement of loose curls framed by a silk headband, and an amethyst and marcasite necklace glittered just below the hollow of her neck.

“She certainly doesn’t appear to be much in mourning, does she?” With a grin, Julia slid over and nudged Phoebe to exit the vehicle.

“Julia, Phoebe, darlings.” Regina came toward them, all five feet, eleven inches of her sleek form swaying gracefully. A beringed hand reached out to them. “I’m so pleased you could come.”

Phoebe returned the greeting and rose up on her toes to kiss her cousin’s cheek. “Dearest Regina, I’m so very sorry about your father.”

“Yes, thank you, Phoebe. Poor Father, expiring so suddenly that way.” Her lips formed a little ball of a pout, before she smiled again and reached to embrace Julia. “Do, do come inside and make yourselves utterly at home. I’ve been simply dying for you to see my newest acquisition. It’s charming, isn’t it, though admittedly rather gloomy inside. But that shall be remedied soon enough. And it’s all mine, free and clear. What do you think?”

Phoebe might have imagined it, or perhaps it was the sigh of the breeze, but she could have sworn Julia groaned behind her.

Eva Huntford, lady’s maid to the Earl of Wroxly’s two younger granddaughters, couldn’t exit the motorcar fast enough for her liking. Though the trip had only been a few miles from home, the distance had been interminable thanks to Eva’s fellow passenger. Initially, she had welcomed the hiring of a new lady’s maid for the eldest Renshaw sibling, Julia, for it meant a lightening of Eva’s own duties. Now she had only two ladies to look after instead of three, and with youngest sister Amelia away at school most of the year, Eva could focus the lion’s share of her efforts on middle sister, Phoebe.

Of course, the addition to Foxwood Hall’s staff hadn’t been for Eva’s benefit. After a quiet spring following some disturbing events at the nearby Haverleigh School for Young Ladies, the Countess of Wroxly had decided it was time to center her attentions on her eldest granddaughter. After all, Lady Wroxly had declared, Julia wasn’t getting any younger. What she needed was a husband—a wealthy one—and that meant venturing into society on a more regular basis. Hence she needed a lady’s maid of her own.

But this woman! As the motorcar carrying the two maids followed the drive to the servants’ entrance at the side of the house, Myra Stanley craned her neck to gaze out the back window. “Do you see that,” she said in a voice that rasped as if with heavy doses of smoke and whiskey. Her stockings—silk, if Eva wasn’t mistaken—made a shushing sound as she crossed one leg over the other beneath her calf-length skirt. “Not a single servant lined up to greet our ladies. What kind of welcome is that when the lady of the house steps out alone?”

“Perhaps Miss Brockhurst hasn’t had time to hire a full house staff,” Eva suggested. Indeed, the farther they drove off the main drive, the more unkempt the greenery became. Box hedges needed a good straightening, while hydrangea and tangled roses reached beyond their beds. Obviously, Miss Brockhurst was in need of a gardener.

“Then she has no business entertaining guests, does she?” The woman’s green eyes sparked and her thin lips pursed.

“She is a cousin of the Renshaws and needn’t stand on ceremony. Besides, it’s hardly our place to judge.”

“Bah.” A terse shake of her head sent a lock of brown hair slipping from beneath Myra Stanley’s hat, a felt, bowler-type affair that sported a blue rosette along the band. She rubbed the tip of her decidedly hawkish nose and sniffed. “What is anything without ceremony? Without the proper dignity?”

Eva was spared having to answer when the motorcar jerked to a stop. They had entered a circular courtyard enclosed by a ragged excuse for tall laurel hedges. Double oaken doors appeared to lead into the basement level of the house. She stepped out onto the drive, curious as to why no one appeared to greet them, and went to the doors to knock, having to tread over fallen leaves and twigs in the process.

After several moments of no response she called out, “Hello, is anyone there? Hello?”

Their driver, one of the footmen from home, set their bags, along with those of Lady Julia and Lady Phoebe, on the pavement, tipped his hat, and bade them good day, leaving Eva and Miss Stanley very much alone in the abandoned courtyard. A warm breeze sifted through unruly holes in the hedge, and somewhere beyond Eva’s vision, a bird warbled. She knocked again.

“This is ridiculous,” Miss Stanley said behind her. “No one out front, no one manning the service entrance. What kind of place is this? I tell you, Lady Diana would never countenance such a slapdash running of a household.”

“Then perhaps you should have stayed in Lady Diana’s employ,” Eva murmured. She couldn’t help herself. Avoiding eye contact with Miss Stanley, she sidestepped to peer in through a window. A black-and-white-tiled hallway stretched away into shadow.

“What was that?” Miss Stanley’s heels clicked as she sauntered closer. “What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

Eva moved away from the window and took several strides into the center of the driveway. She shielded her eyes from the midday sun and glanced up at the house. Abandonment seemed to define High Head Lodge, reminding her of when the Haverleigh School had been forced to close, the students sent home or farmed out to nearby families. A killer had prowled the halls and intruded on the most hallowed of the school’s grounds. The dreadful memory sent a shiver through Eva despite the summer heat. A sudden step behind her sent her flinching out of Myra Stanley’s reach.

Not that Miss Stanley had raised a hand to her. But the woman towered over her, glowering. “I heard very well what you said. As you know, Miss Huntford, it was through no fault of my own that I could not remain in Lady Diana’s employ.”

“Yes, yes. Honestly, what does it matter at the moment?” Eva dismissed Miss Stanley’s pique with an impatient wave. An uneasy sensation that started at the base of her spine slithered up to her nape, a feeling that told her something wasn’t right. It was an instinct born of necessity, and one she had learned to trust. Suddenly she longed to lay eyes on her young mistress, and Lady Julia as well, to reassure herself that High Head Lodge harbored no threats to their well-being.

“It matters to me,” Myra Stanley persisted. “I will not have my reputation as a lady’s maid maligned by you or anyone else, Miss Huntford. When Lady Diana married Mr. Cooper last month, she took on a new home with its own full staff. She was loath to let me go, I can tell you that.”

Eva leveled a skeptical stare on Miss Stanley. She had never heard of a gentlewoman not taking her trusted lady’s maid with her to a new home, fully staffed or not. No, there was more to the story of why Miss Stanley no longer worked for Lady Diana Manners Cooper, but at this precise moment Eva didn’t give a fig about whatever secrets had sent Myra Stanley seeking new employment, or how she had bamboozled the Countess of Wroxly into taking her on without a proper inquiry into her background.

At present, Eva knew two things: She didn’t care at all for Myra Stanley, and she needed to find entry into High Head Lodge.

As if someone read her thoughts, the service door opened with a rustle of the old leaves scattering on the walkway. A woman wearing a serviceable tweed suit in the military style that had become popular during the war beckoned to them. A mere slip of a woman, she reached Eva’s chin at best and sported a slender physique and an almost girlish, elfin chin. Her eyes, however, held a steady confidence that spoke of someone well past her youth. “Come with me, please.”

Past her youth, perhaps, but still far too young to be the housekeeper. And she was certainly not dressed as a maid, nor any other house staff Eva could think of. Even a lady’s maid wouldn’t wear brown tweed, nor would she sport anything approaching fashionable lines—even fashion two or three years behind the times—while on duty. Eva’s gaze dropped to the woman’s low-heeled boots, brown to match the suit, sturdy and sensible, but of fine leather and obviously new. Curious.

“High time you showed up to let us in.” Miss Stanley’s grating voice jarred Eva from her speculations, but daunted their mystery woman not in the least. Miss Stanley hefted her bag and held it out. “I am Lady Julia Renshaw’s personal maid. Kindly call someone to carry the bags and escort us to our rooms. We have a lot of work to do settling our ladies in.”

Eva winced. Even if this person were the scullery maid, she would not have taken that tone with her. This woman appeared unfazed. She merely chuckled and said, “Follow me.” She turned about to lead the way.

“I beg your pardon.” Miss Stanley hurried to catch up to her. “The bags, if you please.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to carry them up yourselves. Or ask your mistresses to help you.”

“What? Of all the impertinence. Do you know who the Renshaws are?”

Despite her own rising curiosity as to whom they were presently following into the house, Eva chuckled as well, content to observe how this would play out. She found herself hoping the woman was the housekeeper, for if so, Myra Stanley would find herself short of linens, hot water, and timely breakfasts for the duration of their stay. She hoisted Lady Phoebe’s valises, one in each hand. With a great show of indignant reluctance, Miss Stanley did the same with Lady Julia’s bags.

Without another word they were led past silent storerooms, larders, and work areas. A pervasive stillness weighted the atmosphere, almost oppressive and so unlike the bustling servants’ domain at Foxwood Hall. Miss Brockhurst did indeed need to people her new estate with workers and maintenance staff.

Soon they came to the main kitchen where two women, one barely out of her teens and the other middle-aged, stood quietly working at the center table. They barely glanced up as Eva and the others strode past, but the elder said to them, “Breakfast is at six thirty sharp. Be here or you’re welcome to make your own.”

Despite the terse message, the voice was not an unamiable one, but of course that did not stop Miss Stanley harrumphing again. Finally, they climbed a narrow flight of stairs up three levels to a utilitarian corridor with numerous rooms opening onto either side. Their footsteps were loud on the wide-plank flooring. Panting to catch her breath, Eva peered into simply furnished bedrooms, some with two iron bedsteads, others with one. The rooms were spacious for servants’ quarters, with large windows affording generous views of the surrounding treetops. What these quarters lacked, however, were any signs of habitation. There were no garments hanging on the wall pegs, no personal effects neatly arranged on the dresser tops, and not a single scuff mark on the buffed wooden floors. Miss Brockhurst appeared to be living in her newly acquired estate with merely a cook, a cook’s assistant, and whatever role this woman happened to play.

“Here you are.” The woman raised both tweed-clad arms, pointing to two rooms across from each other. “You may select whichever you prefer. These are the closest to the washroom and water closet.” She stepped into the bedroom on her right. “See here.” She waved Eva and Miss Stanley inside and pointed to a contraption with buttons, a tube, and a cone that sat on a hook much like that on a telephone. “Have you used one of these before?”

Both Eva and Miss Stanley shook their heads. Foxwood Hall still used the original system of bell pulls to alert the staff to the family’s needs, but vocal communications were achieved through the more modern intra-house telephones that connected several of the main rooms to the housekeeper’s office and butler’s pantry. Eva had never had occasion to use a system like this.

“These speaking tubes connect you to the rooms below. When one of your employers pushes the button for a certain room, the bell will sound, letting you know she wishes to speak with you. Rather archaic, but efficient.”

With that she exited the room with a quick step that spoke of the same efficiency as the speaking tubes—simple but direct. Miss Stanley followed her out to the corridor. “Excuse me.”

The woman turned, one eyebrow raised in expectation. She waited in silence.

“We would like some tea, if you please.”

“Then I suggest you return to the kitchen and make some.”

With a huff, Miss Stanley drew up short. “How dare you? I’ll have you know I intend to see that Miss Brockhurst learns of your boorish behavior. Miss Huntford and I are lady’s maids, not common servants. Clearly you do not understand protocol, nor do you have the slightest grasp of basic common decency.” Several seconds passed. When no response seemed imminent, Miss Stanley raised her chin to a haughty angle. “Well, what do you have to say for yourself?”

The woman smiled, but only briefly. “Clearly there has been a misunderstanding. I am no servant, common or otherwise. My name is Olive Asquith, and I am the very good friend of Miss Brockhurst. I received you below as a courtesy to Miss Brockhurst and her guests, and if you must know, I believe lady’s maids—and butlers, footmen, and all the rest—are a good lot of balderdash that have no place in modern society. You had best realize that if you intend to survive in a world that is fast losing its patience with oppressive and outdated traditions.

“Now, in this house,” she went on briskly and without giving Miss Stanley a chance to deliver the retort so obviously sizzling on her tongue, “you’ll find only the cook and her assistant, for neither Miss Brockhurst nor I know our way around a kitchen.”

“But who cleans?” Miss Stanley demanded. “Who does the laundry?”

“A married couple comes every other day or so to clean and perform any labor that needs doing. The laundry is sent out, and Miss Brockhurst intends to engage a gardener, since again, neither of us have any aptitude for horticulture. Other than that, we see no use for servants. Our meals are served buffet style; we serve ourselves and stack our own used dishes on the sideboard for the cook’s assistant to collect. Now, I’ll leave you to settle in, and if you need anything, there is a linen cupboard at the end of the hall. It’s kept unlocked. Anything else you’ll most likely find belowstairs.”

She strode away, her boots again loud on the floorboards, her small hips barely swaying beneath her narrow skirt. Eva rather enjoyed the moment; for the first time that day, Miss Myra Stanley had been rendered not only silent, but utterly dumbfounded, as indicated by the drop of her chin and her gaping mouth.

“Everything goes.” Cousin Regina stood in the center of the drawing room and swept her arms in wide circles. “All of it.”

Phoebe exchanged a glance of surprise with Julia. She had just finished complimenting the lovely balance of the room’s heavy brocades with lighter, airy florals. Regina had immediately turned up her nose.

“It’s awful,” she sang out. “So utterly last century. I bought the place lock, stock, and barrel, as you can see, but I had no intention of keeping any of the furnishings. We are marching into the modern era, and this house shall march with us.”

“So you intend to gradually replace what’s here,” Phoebe ventured as she mentally began adding up the expense of such an undertaking.

Regina shook her ebony curls and wrinkled her nose. “No, silly. I want it gone as soon as humanly possible. That’s why you’re here.”

Julia sat across from Phoebe on one of several settees in the long room, one leg crossed over the other and swinging with restless energy. “A rather ambitious endeavor in a house of this size, not to mention the expense.”

Phoebe shot her sister another glance. Never mind that they rarely agreed on anything; it was uncharacteristic of Julia to ever mention money, or frugality in particular.

Regina chose to ignore the observation. “There is a particular style I want. I saw it in France before the war, promoted by La Société des Artistes Décorateurs. My instincts tell me it is going to be all the rage once the rest of Europe settles down. It’s divinely innovative and so very modern. The best way I can describe it is clean, flowing, curving lines, very geometric, very . . .” Her expression became animated. “Daring and unencumbered.”

“Rather like you,” Phoebe remarked.

“Yes,” Regina exclaimed. “Like me. I suppose spending the first few years of my life in India, during Father’s posting on the viceroy’s executive council, taught me to appreciate the exotic and the unexpected.”

“Undoubtedly,” Julia said with a slight roll of her eyes. “And how can we be of help?”

“I need your keen eyes to help me design a concept for each room of the house,” Regina replied. “I wish to begin placing orders at the first opportunity.”

“Shouldn’t you seek out a professional? Julia can be of help, of course, but I’m afraid I’m not much for design of any kind.” Phoebe took in the room again, experiencing a vague sense of mourning for the lovely furnishings, carved and gilded, that would soon be cast off. The paintings, many of them portraits of the family who once owned the estate, would undoubtedly be among the first to go. And the two matching silk fire screens, the heavy curtains with their . . .