A Silent Stabbing

Book 5: Lady and Lady's Maid Mystery

by Alyssa Maxwell

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

As England recovers from its costly involvement in the Great War, Lady Phoebe Renshaw and her lady's maid, Eva Huntford, find the steady comforts of their lives unsettled by a local case of murder . . .
Eva is excited for a visit from her sister Alice, who lives in Suffolk with her husband and three children. But when Alice arrives alone, desiring a break from her family, Eva becomes concerned. Her dismay deepens as Alice starts spending time with a former beau, Keenan Ripley, who owns the nearby pear orchard. At the same time, Phoebe's sister Julia, now a widow and pregnant, is in a fretful state, and Phoebe struggles to be helpful to her.
When Keenan's brother Stephen, the new head gardener at the Renshaw estate, Foxwood Hall, is found impaled by a pair of hedge clippers, the police--including Eva's beau, Constable Miles Brannock--suspect his closest kin. Stephen had been eager to sell their orchard to an American developer, but Keenan had fiercely resisted. A table set with two teacups and scones suggests Keenan had company the morning of the murder--and Eva fears her sister was with him.
If Alice were to provide Keenan with an alibi, her reputation and marriage would be ruined. She denies being there but is clearly withholding secrets, much to Eva's consternation. Now, to protect her sister, Eva and Phoebe set off to expose the gardener's real killer, putting their own lives at risk . . .
Praise for Alyssa Maxwell and her Lady and Lady's Maid Mysteries!
A Murderous Marriage
"The action unfolds smoothly until well-disguised clues lead to a clever and satisfying denouement. Downton Abbey fans will have fun."
--Publishers Weekly
"A well-crafter historical mystery which will delight devotees of television shows such as Downton Abbey."
--Suspense Magazine
A Devious Death
"Well-crafted . . . Maxwell artfully portrays the personal dynamics of English society at the time, and readers will hope to see more of the endearing Phoebe and Eva."
--Publishers Weekly
"An unusual twist rooted in the recent horrors of World War I adds interest to a country-house mystery."
--Kirkus Reviews
A Pinch of Poison
"Along with a bracing mystery, Maxwell explores compelling themes. Although this is from a slightly earlier time period, it's a good match with Rhys Bowen's Her Royal Spyness series."
--Booklist
Murder Most Malicious
"Entertaining . . . some of the characters and scenes are highly reminiscent of TV's Downton Abbey, but Maxwell makes Phoebe and Eva distinctive personalities in their own right."
--Publishers Weekly
"Downton Abbey fans will enjoy Maxwell's evocative descriptions of a particular society as it transitions from the Edwardian Age to modern times."
--Library Journal

Release date: February 25, 2020

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 241

Sample

The Cotswolds, September 1920

Her arms full of fresh cut flowers, Eva Huntford entered her parents’ kitchen and yet again caught her mother studying her reflection in the window above the cast iron sink. Eva went to the scrubbed pine table and set down the bundle of feverfew, primroses, and violets she’d snipped from the front garden. Soon the flowers bordering the house would be gone as brisk fall winds chased the last of summer away.

“Do stop fussing, Mum,” she said with a tolerant smile and a shake of her head. “You look lovely.” She meant it. Her mother’s health had taken a turn for the worse during the last year of the war and had remained a concern for Eva until recently. Now, the color had returned to her cheeks and she no longer huffed with every physical effort or wheezed to catch her breath. At fifty-four Betty Huntford might no longer be a young woman, but surely she still had many good years left, not to mention three grandchildren on whom she doted. “Besides, it’s only Alice and the children coming.”

“Just the children, you say.” Her mother turned and leaned her back against the edge of the sink. “It’s been months and months since they’ve seen me. What if they think their poor grandmum is getting old?”

Eva stifled a chuckle. “They’re three, five, and seven.” The oldest had been born right before the war; the other two, during, the result of Oliver’s rare trips home on leave. “They think I look old. Besides, all they care about is getting a warm hug from their grandmum, being told how big they’ve gotten, and sitting down to an extra-large piece of your lardy cake.”

She sniffed the warm, spicy scents rising from the oven. Her mum’s lardy cake, made with freshly rendered lard, plenty of sugar, currants, and raisins, was the best Eva had ever tasted, and that included Mrs. Ellison’s at Foxwood Hall. It was a trifle expensive, of course, and Mum only made it for special occasions. “Smells wonderful.”

“To tell you truly, Evie, I didn’t expect this visit, it came so out of the blue when Alice wrote to say they were coming. It’s left me the tiniest bit addled, having to get the house ready for them on such short notice.” Mum cast a nervous glance at the old coal-fired range, cast iron like the sink, but black rather than white. The house dated to the early decades of the last century, and the range had been set into the cavernous hearth that had once served for cooking meals. “They should be here any minute. Provided, that is, Old Bessie doesn’t break down again. I do wish your father would spend the money on a new truck.”

“Even if he had the money, he wouldn’t spend it on a new truck, Mum. Not while Old Bessie still has a breath left in her.”

“Yes, yes, that’s true. I’ll just . . . I’ll set the table. Oh, and I’ll put those flowers in a vase. You go keep watch for them.”

Eva didn’t argue. If setting the table and seeing that every little detail was just so helped her mother expend some energy and feel less jittery, then Eva would leave her to it. In the parlor, she took up position by the front window that overlooked the road. Across the way, the poplar trees flanking the Pittmans’ farmhouse were already glowing brightly gold, while the oak beside the Huntfords’ barn retained most of its summer green, tipped only here and there in licks of flame.

The dry autumn air intensified the blue of the sky and the sharpness of the sunlight, making her squint a bit to see down the road. She did indeed hope Old Bessie, Dad’s prewar motor wagon with its flatbed for hauling farm equipment, made it to the train depot and back. Poor Bessie had been making odd, grunting complaints lately that didn’t bode well for her future.

“It was ever so good of Lady Phoebe to give you the day off,” Mum called from the other room.

Eva nodded, though Mum couldn’t see it. “It feels almost sinful not to be working on a Tuesday.” Officially, she had time off only on Sunday afternoons, after church. But she happened to work as a lady’s maid for a tolerant and thoughtful mistress, not to mention that Eva had helped Lady Phoebe’s sister, Julia, now Lady Annondale, out of a particularly doleful situation earlier this year. Phoebe and the entire Renshaw family were only too happy to grant Eva the occasional favor, though she would never take advantage of their kindness.

Outside, movement caught her eye. There, down the road at the fork that led either west, to the village of Little Barlow or north to the train depot, a little cloud of dust stirred in the air. A moment later Old Bessie’s snub, rust-stained bonnet came into view. Soon, through the open windows, Eva could hear the truck’s creaking and groaning and the chug-chug of her engine. “They’re here, Mum!”

Although it must have been a tight squeeze to fit Dad, Alice, and three small children into the cab of the motor wagon, Eva was glad to see none of them rode in the bed. She always grimaced at the sight of local children riding in the back of open lorries. But then, Eva didn’t believe any seat in a motorcar to be completely safe; they went too, too fast for her comfort, and all that jostling at high speeds couldn’t possibly do a body any good.

Mum shuffled into the room, realized she held a dishrag in one hand and still wore her apron, and doubled back into the kitchen. When she appeared again she was smoothing her cotton frock—her second best—and patting stray brown hairs peppered with gray into place. Outside, Old Bessie puttered to a halt in front of the house and let out a hiss. Mum ran to open the front door, grabbing her shawl off the back of a chair on the way.

When Eva expected her to hurry across the threshold, her mother instead went still, rather like Old Bessie with her tires gone flat. Eva peered out the window to see into the truck; there, just inside the passenger door, was her sister’s profile. Just then Alice turned, spotted Eva, and waved enthusiastically. She opened the door to hop out. Eva heard a sigh from her mother. “Mum, what’s wrong?”

“Where are the children? Where are my Hannah, Lizzie, and Ollie Junior?”

Indeed. Three small children should have poured out the door after their mother, but there was no one left inside. Alice went round to the back of the wagon and slid out her overnight satchel. Dad joined her there and hefted her larger portmanteau. Together they came up the front path.

“Mum, Eva, it’s so good to see you both,” Alice cried. She smiled broadly. “It’s so jolly to be home.”

Before stepping outside, Mum cast Eva a look over her shoulder, and in that instant Eva saw her effort to bring her features under control, to hide her disappointment. Eva felt a sense of letdown, too. She had so looked forward to playing the indulgent auntie to her nephew and two little nieces. As her mother had said, it had been months and months since their visit at Christmas.

“Here she is, all safe and sound.” Dad shifted the weight of the trunk in his arms, and Eva noticed that he, too, worked to keep his expression amiable.

“I didn’t expect you to be here today, Eva,” Alice said after Mum had embraced her, inspected her appearance from head to foot, and declared her “looking lovely though a smidgeon tired.”

Alice and Eva hugged and then stepped back to admire each other. Alice, Eva’s senior by three years, had their father’s eyes and Mum’s dark hair, as did Eva. And like Eva, Alice’s features drew from both parents. People had always said the Huntford sisters looked very much alike, but Eva was taken slightly aback now to detect the beginnings of crow’s-feet beside Alice’s eyes and lines that spoke of weariness around her mouth. Those lines deepened to brackets as Alice grinned. “How spiffing of the Renshaws to let you out for the day. You must have them wrapped around your little finger. They say a good servant eventually becomes the master, and the master the servant.”

“Do they? I’ve never heard that.”

“Well, let’s not all stand outside for the neighbors’ entertainment.” Their father led the way into the parlor. With a grunt, he set the suitcase down against the wall. Dad had trimmed his beard short for the summer and sported a bit more of a paunch between his braces than he had last winter, a result of Mum’s talents as both a cook and a baker. He gave his stomach a pat now as he scented the aromas coming from the kitchen. With a sideways glance at his elder daughter, he said, “Little Ollie loves his lardy cake, doesn’t he, Alice?”

When her sister didn’t reply, Eva decided there was nothing for it but to ask the question quivering in the air between them. “Alice, why haven’t you brought the children?”

“Yes, Alice.” Mum closed the front door; turning, she clasped her hands at her waist. “Surely you didn’t leave them in Suffolk with Oliver. How on earth is he to tend to them and the farm at the same time?”

“Don’t be silly, Mum.” Alice set down her overnight bag, collapsed on the sofa, and let out a weary sigh. “No, they’re with their Ward grandparents, well looked after, I assure you.”

Mum’s frown etched deep lines across her brow. So much for concealing her true feelings. “You do realize they have grandparents right here who would have adored looking after them.”

“Yes, but they have school now. Surely you didn’t expect me to take them away from their lessons.” Alice patted the cushion beside her, an invitation for Mum to join her. After bringing Alice’s larger case into the room she and Eva had once shared, Dad lowered himself into his favorite easy chair. Eva crossed the room to lean against the mantel. “The truth is,” her sister began, and sighed once more, “I needed a bit of a holiday. I’ve earned one. You remember how it can be sometimes, don’t you, Mum?”

“I’m . . . not sure what you mean.” Mum’s forehead knotted more tightly. Dad tilted his head and narrowed his eyes as if perplexed by a difficult math problem.

“All the demands of children and husband and farm life.” Alice held out her hands. “It’s all so consuming sometimes. I just wanted . . . no, I needed some time to myself. And time with my family.”

Mum’s frown deepened still more. “How is Oliver? Is everything all right with . . . him?”

Eva guessed her mother’s hesitation stemmed from her being about to ask if everything was all right with Alice and Oliver, meaning had they quarreled? Because that was exactly what Eva suspected.

“Oliver is just fine, Mum.” Alice smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle from her skirt. “He’s very busy now harvesting the wheat and barley.”

“And he doesn’t need your help?” Dad asked.

Alice looked up, her gaze shifting from parent to parent. “No. He’s got day laborers.”

“Oh. He can afford laborers? Isn’t that a frightful strain on his profits?” Mum glanced over at Dad. “Why, your father almost never—”

“Do I smell lardy cake?” Alice made a show of lifting her nose into the air. She rose suddenly and hurried into the kitchen.

Her lips pursed, Mum gained her feet a good deal more slowly, with Dad rising and coming over to lend her a hand. “What in the world?” she whispered to him. Dad shrugged. “Time with her family? Her husband and children are her family. And she certainly didn’t seem eager to answer our questions and put our minds at rest. Vincent, I’m worried about that girl. This isn’t like her.”

The oven door whined on its hinges. “Mmmm,” Alice sang out with appreciation. “I’d say it’s almost ready. Mum, have you any perry on hand?”

“In the pantry, luv,” Mom called back, but her gaze never left her husband’s.

“Is it Ripley’s?” Alice’s footsteps could be heard crossing the kitchen.

Her mother said impatiently, “Of course it is.”

“Alice is no girl, that’s certain,” Dad murmured. “And we’ve no cause to pry simply because she’s come home for a visit. Maybe it’s as she says—she needed a holiday.”

“Yes, but why?” The conversation continued in hushed tones, giving Eva the impression her parents had forgotten she was still in the room. “I tell you, Vincent, there’s something wrong. And I intend to find out what it is.”

“Ah, here it is.” Alice’s muffled voice drifted from the pantry. “How has Keenan Ripley’s yield been so far this year?”

No one answered the question about the local farmer whose family had long ago cultivated the species of pears that made Gloucestershire’s unique cider, called perry. The Ripley perry was considered some of the Cotswolds’ best. Even Eva, who only rarely drank spirits, was known to enjoy a pint on occasion.

“Would everyone like some?” Alice asked, her voice louder now as she apparently reentered the kitchen.

“Not for me, Alice,” Mum said, her impatience once more conveyed by her rising voice, and Eva was certain her mother couldn’t have cared less just then what she ate or drank. To her husband she whispered emphatically, “I’ll soon know what’s going on with that girl.”

“Now, Betty . . .”

“No, I’m her mother, and I’ve a right to know when things aren’t right with one of my children—” Mum’s voice had begun to rise again, then suddenly choked off. A tide of red flooded her face, and her eyes filled, a sight that brought a sting to Eva’s own eyes. Her mother’s sudden wretchedness wasn’t about Alice. It was about the one child she hadn’t been able to help, to save. The child who had perhaps needed his mother, but he had been beyond her reach at the time. Eva’s brother, Danny, who died in the war, whose body still lay in an unmarked grave in France . . .

The oven door again creaked open. “It looks ready,” Alice called. “Shall I take it out?”

“I’m coming.” With a last determined glance at Dad, Mum hurried into the other room. That left Eva and her father staring at each other. He looked apologetic and at a loss. Poor man, outnumbered by his womenfolk and often unable to puzzle out what were, for him, their mysterious ways. Eva blinked away the moisture in her eyes, went to him, and smiled up into his kindly face.

“Don’t worry, Dad, I’m sure Alice is just fine. But if there is something wrong, I’ll find out what it is, and I’ll fix it.”

The tables lining the stone walls of St. George’s basement fairly groaned beneath their burdens, a circumstance that brought great satisfaction to Phoebe Renshaw. Her autumn charity drive for the Relief and Comfort of Veterans and Their Families, or the RCVF, had proved an unmitigated success, and by this time next week deliveries would be made to the wounded veterans of the Great War who resided in Gloucestershire, and to the families of those men who never returned.

“A job well done, my lady.” Eva, Phoebe’s personal maid, carried an armful of children’s clothing, which she added to a pile on the nearest table. It was the fifth load she had carried down from the vestibule of the church above them in the past ten minutes. Eva had had the day off yesterday to welcome her sister, who was visiting their parents in Little Barlow, and it seemed she was determined to work twice as hard today to make up for it. Dearest Eva.

“The parish truly stepped forward this time, didn’t they?” Phoebe continued scanning the goods piled high on each table. Besides clothing, there were linens and bedding, pots and pans, dishes and cutlery, tinned and jarred goods, sacks of flour, farming tools, and so much more. Toward the back of the room, two volunteers were sorting toiletries. Elaina Corbyn, the wife of a local sheep farmer, and Violet Hershel, the vicar’s wife, spoke quietly together as they organized items and jotted down an inventory of goods.

Phoebe joined Eva at the children’s clothing table and began separating boys’ garments from girls’. “Now the real work begins,” she said. “First the sorting and then the matching of donations to the requests we’ve received from the families who need our help.”

“I’m happy to lend a hand, too, my lady.” Eva’s sister, Alice Ward, came down the steps from the sanctuary and set a box on the table marked Cleaning Supplies. A carton of Fels-Naptha soap peeped out over the edge of the corrugated cardboard container. Mrs. Ward so resembled Eva with her dark hair, trim figure, and small, even features, that often Phoebe had to look twice to know to whom she was speaking. Except that Eva, approaching thirty but not quite, still retained the bloom of youth, while time hung a bit more heavily on Alice Ward.

“I don’t like to see you laboring during your holiday, Mrs. Ward,” Phoebe told her with a laugh.

“This is pleasant work, Lady Phoebe. And with three children at home, I’m not used to sitting about all day.”

Phoebe heard a little sigh from Eva. What was that about? Before she could ponder further, booted footsteps sounded on the stone stairs from outside. Two men made their way precariously down to the basement, one backward, the other facing front, carrying a large crate between them. A chilly draft from outside followed them down, prompting Phoebe to tighten her cardigan around her.

“Morning, Lady Phoebe,” the one facing backward said. “I’ve got pears for you. They’re a little overripe for perry making, but perfectly edible, and there’s no use in letting them rot. Make excellent pies and turnovers, I expect.” Farmer and owner of a local brewery, Keenan Ripley continued taking small backward steps while his older brother, Stephen, guided him to a vacant spot on one of the tables. Unlike Eva and her sister, the brothers could not have looked more different. Keenan sported dusky red hair that curled over his collar, while Stephen’s close-shorn locks were as pale and straight as straw. The brothers set down their load, and Keenan wiped a sleeve across his brow.

Phoebe went over to inspect the contents of the crate. An assortment of red, green, and gold pears met her gaze. “What do we have here?”

That they were pears was obvious, but Mr. Ripley knew her question involved specifics. “Some Barlands, Helen’s Earlies, and Blakeney Reds, mostly.”

“Are you sure you can spare all these, Mr. Ripley? There are a great many here.” She couldn’t help wondering if the fruit was truly unsuitable for brewing Gloucestershire’s unique blend of pear cider, or if Keenan Ripley was in an exceedingly generous mood. She glanced up at both brothers and smiled. “Or should I say, Misters Ripley? I didn’t know you’d returned to Little Barlow,” she said to the elder brother, Stephen. Though she had been a young schoolgirl when he moved away from the village, Phoebe remembered him because he had worked at Foxwood Hall, assisting the head gardener, Alfred Peele. She remembered her grandfather once commenting that Stephen hadn’t seemed at all interested in the family orchard, but would make a fine gardener someday. He had left a couple of years before the war started and hadn’t been back since.

“Only just back, but you’re right to address your concerns to my brother.” Stephen Ripley shoved a pair of spectacles higher on his sunburned nose. “I’ve not joined him in the brewing business. In fact, Lady Phoebe, I’ll be working at Foxwood Hall starting tomorrow.”

“Will you? I didn’t know.” What came as a surprise wasn’t so much the news that Stephen Ripley would be joining the staff at home, but that her grandfather hadn’t informed her of the fact. With his heir, Phoebe’s brother Fox, still a boy in his teen years, Grandfather had taken to confiding in Phoebe when it came to matters of estate business. He said she had a good head for figures and organization, and she considered it of no small consequence that he showed such confidence in her abilities. She couldn’t help wondering why he had omitted to mention a new employee. But she carefully schooled her features not to show the slightest smidgeon of perplexity. “Will you be assisting Mr. Peele again?”

Stephen Ripley’s self-satisfied grin revealed a row of well-formed if uneven teeth. “No, my lady. I’m going to be your new head gardener.”

“Head gardener . . . ?” She trailed off, once again unwilling to reveal her thoughts. Alfred Peele had served in the capacity of head gardener at Foxwood Hall for nearly two decades. Yes, he was getting on, but the man still stood as straight as the hedges he kept trimmed to such perfection that, from a distance, they appeared to be solid walls of emerald and jade. Phoebe had heard no talk of him retiring—not so much as a wisp of a hint. And obviously Eva had heard nothing belowstairs, or she would have said something.

Then what had happened? She wouldn’t ask Stephen Ripley. No, it wouldn’t do to question the man directly, not when he had already reached an understanding with her grandfather. It wasn’t her place. But she would ask Grampapa the moment she returned home.

From the corner of her eye she noticed Alice Ward hovering close by, and realized she might very well wish to chat with the brothers. Eva as well. All of them being of an age, they had grown up together, attended the village school right here in St. George’s basement before the permanent school had been built next door, and before Eva had won her scholarship to attend the nearby Haverleigh School for Young Ladies.

But they would not exchange more than a few words until Phoebe moved away and busied herself elsewhere. For them to do otherwise would be considered impertinent. Oh, not to Phoebe—she never minded about such things. But the others had been raised to show deference to the Earl of Wroxly and his family, who had presided over the village and its surrounds these many generations.

“It’s good to have you home, Mr. Ripley,” she said to Stephen, and with a shift of her gaze, said to Keenan, “Thank you so much for the pears, Mr. Ripley. Your donation will bring a welcome as well as wholesome treat to many of our families who could not afford it otherwise.”

She moved several tables away and began sorting kitchen gadgets: whisks, peelers, crimpers, mashers, etc. Meanwhile, the others did as she expected, with Mrs. Ward and Keenan Ripley appearing to become quickly reacquainted, and Eva and Stephen Ripley trading pleasantries. Mrs. Corbyn and Mrs. Hershel, older than the others, greeted the newcomers briefly but kept on working. Phoebe caught Eva’s gaze and compressed her lips, and Eva nodded in the kind of comprehension they had become adept at over the past couple of years. With any luck, her lady’s maid might unravel the mystery of Foxwood Hall’s new head gardener.

“I heard from Keenan that you’d fought in the war,” Eva said to Stephen. From the corner of her eye, she noticed Al. . .