’Tis the season for a pair of Christmas novels that add a dash of murder to the Yuletide spirit. “Perry’s Victorian-era holiday mysteries [are] an annual treat.”—The Wall Street Journal A CHRISTMAS HOMECOMING “Could have been devised by Agatha Christie . . . [Anne Perry is] a modern master.”—Pittsburgh Post-Gazette Charlotte Pitt’s mother, Caroline, is spending the holiday with her young husband, Joshua Fielding, in Whitby, the fishing village where Dracula first touches English soil in Bram Stoker’s sensational novel. Joshua has arranged to produce a stage adaptation of Dracula, written by the daughter of millionaire Charles Netheridge, but tempers flare after a disastrous first read-through of the script. As wind and snow swirl around Netheridge’s lonely hilltop mansion, a black-cloaked stranger emerges from the storm. At the same time, a brooding evil makes itself felt, and instead of theatrical triumph, there is murder—shocking and terrifying.
A CHRISTMAS GARLAND “In Anne Perry’s gifted hands, the puzzle plays out brilliantly.”—Greensboro News & Record The year is 1857, soon after the violent Siege of Cawnpore, and India is in the midst of rebellion. In the British garrison, a guard is killed, a prisoner escapes, and a luckless medical orderly named John Tallis is arrested as an accomplice simply because he was the only soldier unaccounted for when the crimes were committed. Though chosen to defend Tallis, young Lieutenant Victor Narraway is not encouraged to try very hard. His superiors merely want a show trial. But inspired by a simple Christmas garland, and his own stubborn faith in justice, Narraway is determined to figure out the truth, despite the appalling odds. In an alien world haunted by massacre, he is the accused man’s only hope.
Release date:
November 4, 2014
Publisher:
Ballantine Books
Print pages:
432
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CAROLINE FIELDING SAW THE HUGE MANSION RISING from the steep incline ahead of them as the carriage turned the corner, and felt an almost overwhelming sense of relief. It was the end of a very long journey and she was aching with tiredness and from the biting cold. First there had been the early morning ride to the station in London. The platforms had been crowded and it had been difficult to push their way to the train with all the luggage in tow, trying not to bump into people. She had been glad to find their seats for the journey to York.
In York they had disembarked. One piece of luggage had been mislaid and, as time was short, they were desperate to find it. She had been asking the same porter the same questions over and over, until at last it was found, safely stowed in the guards’ car on the train to Whitby. Then she and Joshua had almost run along the platform as the carriage doors began to clang shut, the engine belching steam and smuts, and they scrambled on just as the train began to move.
Now in the dark, surrounded by the newly fallen snow, they rode in a two-horse carriage from Whitby up to the cliff edge and this house where they would spend the whole Christmas holiday, if you could call it a holiday.
Caroline turned to look at Joshua beside her. Aware of her movement, he touched her gloved hand lightly.
“A bit brooding, isn’t it?” he said ruefully. “But I expect it’ll be warm inside, and we’ll be very welcome.”
The coach lamps did not give enough light to see his face, but she could imagine it: gentle, mercurial, full of humor. She heard the half apology in his voice.
“It’ll be excellent,” she said without hesitation. She would never be as good an actor as he was, because she could not help but always be herself, and it was his profession to imagine himself inside another man’s skin, even his heart. But she had long ago learned to mask her feelings for the sake of those she loved, and she did love him. However, there were fears that crowded her every so often because she was so much older than he, and she did not belong to the world of the theater as he did. She feared she would always be an outsider, too old for him in the eyes of his fellows, too ordinary, undramatic, and painfully respectable. Yet she would have been miserable had she not married him, if she had given in to conventionality and remained a widow after her first husband’s death. And she loved Joshua so much. She felt no inner doubt or shadow about her second marriage although outwardly it had not been at all the right thing to do.
For a moment Joshua’s hand tightened over hers.
They climbed the last hundred yards of the road, horses straining against the weight of the vehicle, and finally pulled to a stop in front of the magnificent entrance of the mansion. The doors were thrown open, flooding the portico and the gravel driveway with light.
“You are right,” Caroline said with a smile. “We are welcome.”
A footman opened the carriage door and Joshua climbed out quickly, turning to assist Caroline. She had been glad of the cloak and her huge skirts while on the journey—they provided the only warmth available—but now they were an encumbrance as she tried to step down elegantly. She grasped Joshua’s hand rather more firmly than she had intended, and stood up straight to her full height just as their host, Charles Netheridge, came out of his ostentatiously large front door. He descended the wide steps, holding out his hand.
Introductions were made and orders given. Footmen materialized to unpack the boxes and trunks and see to the horses.
Charles Netheridge was a stocky man, thick-chested, heavy-shouldered. His gray hair was still strong, but receding a little at the front as he moved into his sixties. In the flare of the outside lights, his features were blunt and vigorous, as was his manner. He had made a fortune in coal, and later also in jet. It was his pleasure to donate generously to the theater in London and to know that some of the best performances would never have found an audience without his intervention.
Now he had Joshua, one of England’s most dynamic actors, in his own home, and he was brimming over with satisfaction. He led them inside, calling out orders for their comfort, refreshment, for luggage to be taken to their rooms, and anything they wanted taken care of immediately.
Caroline barely glanced around the hall, with its gray-and-white marble floor and high ceiling from which hung a splendid chandelier. The warmth now enveloped her and just at that minute, it was all she cared about.
“Mr. Singer is already here,” Netheridge said cheerfully. “He told me he is to play the hero, Van Helsing.” He looked a little self-conscious as he said this last, watching Joshua earnestly, as if trying to read his thoughts.
Joshua composed his expression in a manner Caroline had come to understand. He was concealing a very considerable amount of irritation.
“I think he will be,” he agreed. “But we will make no final decisions until we have read through Miss Netheridge’s dramatization.”
“Of course, of course,” Netheridge agreed. “All in good time. I hope Mr. Hobbs and Miss Carstairs, and Miss Rye will get here before too long. It’s a nasty night, and set to get worse, I think. No doubt we’ll have a good deal of snow by Christmas. Nine days to go before the performance.” He looked at Joshua narrowly, with a steady, curiously unblinking stare. “Long enough for you to get it right, do you think? No idea if it’s any good. Alice has no experience, you know.”
Joshua made himself smile. “You’ll be surprised how quickly a production can come together.”
“Damn silly story, if you ask me,” Netheridge murmured, half to himself. “Vampires, indeed! But it seems to be all the rage in London, or so they say. Who is this fellow, Bram Stoker? What kind of a name is ‘Bram’?”
“Short for Abraham,” Joshua replied.
“Netheridge looked at him wide-eyed. “A Jew?”
“I’m told he’s Irish,” Joshua said with a slight smile, but Caroline saw the slight stiffening of his body and the tension in his shoulders. She had learned not to leap to his defense: To do so was patronizing, as if there were something about being a Jew that needed explaining. But it was difficult for her. It is instinct to protect those whom we love; and the more open to hurt they are, the fiercer our retaliation.
Netheridge did not even appear to be aware that he had been clumsy, and this was not the time to let him know. They needed him in the coming year of 1898. Without his support, their next play would not open. It was the promise of that support that had prompted Joshua and the lead actors in his company to agree to spend ten days over Christmas as Netheridge’s guest, and perform his daughter’s amateur dramatization of Stoker’s new novel, Dracula. It was fitting; in the book, a storm had washed the coffin containing the vampire ashore at Whitby. The play would be performed on Boxing Day, the day after Christmas, for an audience of Netheridge’s friends and neighbors.
Eliza Netheridge came hurrying out of the passage at the back of the hall. She was a small woman with a gentle face, her fair hair just beginning to turn gray. She looked concerned as her husband made the introductions; he spoke with a touch of impatience, as if he was annoyed that she hadn’t been there already, waiting for them.
“You must be tired,” Eliza said warmly, looking first at Caroline, then at Joshua. “And cold. I’m sure you would like to go to your room and rest a little before dinner.”
“Thank you,” Caroline accepted quickly. “That is most kind. It has been rather a long journey, and we very much wish to be at our best tomorrow.”
“Of course.” Eliza smiled. “Will dinner at eight be suitable to you? We can always serve you something in the breakfast room at a different time, if you wish?”
“Eight will be excellent,” Caroline assured her, turning toward the stairs.
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