Death and the Visitors

Book 2: Mary Shelley Mystery

by Heather Redmond

Genres: Historical Mysteries; International Crime & Mystery

Synopsis

Stepsisters Mary and Jane find themselves caught up in a mystery involving a drowned Russian and missing diamonds, while falling for the charms of poets Percy Bysshe Shelley and Lord Byron—in this gripping historical mystery from the acclaimed author of the A Dickens of a Crime series.

1814: Foreign diplomats are descending on London in advance of the Congress of Vienna meetings to formulate a new peace plan for Europe following Napoleon’s downfall. Mary and Jane’s father, political philosopher William Godwin, is hosting a gathering with an advance party of Russian royal staff. The Russians are enthusiastic followers of Mary’s late mother, philosopher and women’s rights advocate Mary Wollstonecraft, which leads to a lively dinner discussion.

Following their visit, Jane overhears her father reassuring his pushiest creditor that the Russians have pledged diamonds to support his publishing venture, the Juvenile Library, relieving his financial burden. But when Godwin is told the man who promised the diamonds was pulled from the River Thames, his dire financial problems are further complicated by the suspicion that the family may have been involved in the murder.

Stepsisters Mary and Jane resolve to find the real killer to clear the family name. Coming to their aid is Godwin’s disciple, the dashing poet Percy Shelley, who seems increasingly devoted to Mary, despite the fact that he is married. And a young woman Jane befriends turns out to be the mistress of the celebrated poet—and infamous lover—Lord Byron.

As both sisters find themselves perhaps dangerously captivated by the poets, their proximity to the truth of the Russian’s murder puts them in far greater peril . . .

Release date: August 20, 2024

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 336

Sample

London, Saturday, May 28, 1814

“How wonderful to know Mother’s work has made it all the way to Russia,” my stepsister Mary Godwin exclaimed, an expression of awed pleasure on her lovely fairy face.

As pretty as Mary was, the Polish princess sitting across from us at the dining table outshone her, despite her maturity versus Mary’s fresh-faced sixteen years. Heavy eyelids over large, dark eyes gave Princess Maria an undeniably sensual air. The rest of her features were enshrined in a perfect rosy cream complexion, which continued down to her low-cut, tight bodice of blue velvet, necessary against the unusual May chill.

I fancied I had something similar to her looks, though with darker hair and no finery. She wore no necklace, the better to display her bosom, but a number of bracelets and rings adorned her wrists and fingers. Her ears, visible under an elaborate braided topknot hairstyle, sported pearl drops from which hung delicate gold chain and pearl loops. I might have been jealous, except that in the household of William Godwin, my stepfather, we were raised not to want such things.

Intellectual accomplishments were everything, and after all, that is what had brought such distinguished guests to the first floor of our listing, creaking, damp house on Skinner Street. The house was imposing enough to impress visitors, if one ignored the condition of it. Due to a dispute in ownership, Papa didn’t pay rent but couldn’t demand repairs.

The two men with her, Princess Maria’s Russian husband and his brother, also cut fine figures, despite being considerably older, and their extravagant manes of gray and dark hair put Papa’s balding head to shame. Little differentiated them, other than a faint white scar line stretching along the brother’s jaw.

“I do hope the publisher of the Russian edition has paid for the privilege of selling A Vindication of the Rights of Woman,” my mother said acidly.

Papa spoke over Mamma, his second wife and my mother, drowning out the end of the title. “Either way, the volumes have brought fascinating guests to our table. I am curious to hear your opinions on the current situation in France.”

“Why are so many foreign diplomats descending on London?” I asked.

“We come in advance of the Congress of Vienna meetings,” Count Dmitry Naryshkin said in a heavy accent. “The servants of many royal persons are already arriving to ensure their masters’ future comforts.”

“I am sure the upper classes are preparing to celebrate with visiting leaders and statesmen,” Mamma said. “We have had our fair share of such dinner guests over the years, like Aaron Burr, the former vice president of the United States.”

“Why are all of your children not here?” Pavel Naryshkin asked, in an even thicker accent. “There is a daughter of the household missing, no?”

“The eldest, Fanny, is in Wales presently,” Papa said. “She is interested in educational matters, like her late mother, and has taken the offerings of our Juvenile Library to a community there.”

I watched Mary’s eyelids flutter and her mouth work. I remembered my stepsister Fanny’s tears as she was sent away for loving a married poet. The man in question, Percy Bysshe Shelley, a disciple of Papa’s, had affected us all in curious ways.

“I see you live over your shop,” Pavel Naryshkin said. “Is that common in London?”

“It makes life simpler,” Papa said. “We are not proud people. However, the business continues into the next building. We publish many educational works as well as sell them here.”

“There was a murder in the bookshop recently,” Mary said, a malicious gleam coming into her eyes as she glanced at me.

“How dreadful,” the princess murmured, but her husband spoke over her, changing the subject.

“When will Miss Fanny return?” he asked.

“We do enjoy traveling in this family,” Mamma said with a vapid flutter of her fingers for emphasis.

“The air is terrible here,” Mary said in a flat tone. “There are prisons all around us, and a slaughterhouse. Often, there are hangings.” She pointed an accusatory finger toward the window.

“Mary,” I chided. “It’s not as if you can see the gibbet from the house. They build it a bit down the street when it is needed.”

Mamma’s face had gone florid. “Well.”

Mary jumped in her seat. Mamma had probably pinched her with those strong, sausage-like fingers. Her pinches left bruises.

“Does she tend to illness?” Dmitry Naryshkin asked.

“Fanny?” I asked. “No, not of the physical kind.”

“Jane,” Papa barked. “Fanny is in excellent health, and we all enjoy traveling. Mary returned from a long trip to Scotland at the end of winter.”

Fanny and Mary both tended to depression. Though they had different fathers, the Wollstonecraft blood came with a heavy mental burden, it seemed. I only knew my father had been Swiss, but I must have inherited my cheerful temperament from him.

“Miss Fanny should be with her family,” Count Naryshkin said. “She should be brought home to London where she belongs.”

His tone, not to mention his opinion, confused me. Perhaps he believed that daughters of the household should be kept at home, minding their needlework. Unlike Mary and me, though, Fanny was old enough to be out in the world, married or even working. But these visitors were upper-class, after all, and their women were much more decorative than useful, as we had to be.

“I am very excited you are here, even if dear Fanny cannot be,” Mary said.

“How sweet of you to say,” the princess cooed.

“Oh, yes.” Mary leaned forward. “You see, I am writing a novel called Isabella, the Penitent; or, The Bandit Novice of Dundee. My heroine is, as expected, in a most modest situation at the start of the book, but when she is kidnapped, she will be dressed by the wealthy villain. I must store away the details of your wardrobe and jewels for Isabella.”

The princess smiled and saluted Mary with her wineglass. “Do you write with a message, as your dear mother and father did?”

“I think a well-educated girl can overcome just about any difficulty,” Mary said, her words tumbling faster as she warmed to her subject. “Why should any girl be helpless? Papa and Mamma have always said they did not have time to educate us to my mother’s standards, but I have a terrible fascination for natural philosophy and any kind of book, really.”

“Do your ideas come from the natural world, then?” the princess asked.

“From dreams,” Mary said, leaning forward until the bodice of her black silk dress nearly dipped into her buttery potatoes. “I read too much, or see something in the neighborhood, and it is all twisted into dreams. Why, I—”

Papa cleared his throat. “At my age, we have many young people around us, carrying the torch for our principles. One of the best, Percy Bysshe Shelley, has just assured me he will be staying in London under my tutelage, instead of returning to Wales.”

I wondered what that would mean for poor Shelley’s disastrous marriage. I half thought he should return to Wales with his cheating wife and horrid sister, abandon them there, then flee back to London. Mary’s eyes had widened, though the rest of her expression remained serene. Papa might have at least let her finish answering the princess’s question.

I noticed the princess had not touched anything on her plate after the first couple of bites. Our French cook, the poor dear, had burned the potatoes again and boiled the cabbage down to an unappealing mush. “Do you hire many Frenchwomen in Russia?” I asked, setting down my knife. “Are they all as difficult to train as our cook?”

“Jane!” Mamma whisper-roared, then pushed her chair back so quickly it fell over, dropping with a dull thud onto the threadbare carpet. “Why don’t we leave the men to their libations? I am sure Her Royal Highness would like to see the portrait of the first Mrs. Godwin that hangs in Mr. Godwin’s study.”

She had captured all three of our guests’ attention.

“I would like that most excessively,” Princess Maria said, daintily rearranging her place setting. “To see an image of our Mary painted from life is an inestimable privilege.”

I had the feeling Mamma shouldn’t have risen before our royal guest, but the princess didn’t show obvious displeasure. Possibly she never ate much anyway, to maintain her stunning figure.

My half brother Charles, a bit younger than Fanny, smirked at me. “Someone should take Willy upstairs.”

“Yes, take Willy up, then you can join us,” Mamma said to me. When his tutor was not in the house, we often had to take charge of our shared half brother. What an interesting tangle we were, five young people, none of whom had the same set of parents.

Mary and I rose after the princess did. We followed Mamma out of the dining room. The door would not close into the warped frame as she tried to push it. I turned my back to the door and, ignoring the grinding and squeaking sounds of the wood, forced it shut.

Mamma’s lips tightened, but she turned away, fingering the dark curl that lay against her throat, and marched down the passage to the study, holding a candle high to illuminate the passage.

I hauled eleven-year-old Willy upstairs, then ordered him to wash the sauce off his face and trotted back downstairs, unwilling to miss any of the conversation.

The study still had illumination from the street at this time of year. When I came in, Mamma was droning on about Papa’s extravagant collection of books. They filled untidy bookcases all around us, nearly to the ceiling. I wondered if she hoped to sell some of the titles to our guests. Papa would be dreadfully angry if she managed it, but I was on Mamma’s side. We needed to raise money somehow.

However, Princess Maria did not take the bait. After a significant pause, Mamma left the bookcases and stepped around Papa’s chair behind his desk. She set the candlestick on the table underneath the portrait of Mary Wollstonecraft, illuminating it. The princess gasped theatrically and clasped her hands together over her heart.

“She contemplates eternity, this sweet lady,” the princess said.

When I glanced at Mary, she had her hand over her abdomen, as if reminding herself that her mother had been carrying her at the time the portrait was created, just a few months before her death.

The painting showed a mature lady who possessed few to none of her daughter’s features. Her nose might have been similar, except that I knew Mary’s nose to be an exact copy of Papa’s. Her brown hair had a bit of the flyaway quality of Mary’s, but the color was not a match. I recognized the serenity of her expression, however. Had Mary come by her peaceful demeanor, regardless of the inner workings of her mind, naturally, or had she cultivated her looks after long hours contemplating her mother’s visage?

As if I had spoken out loud, the princess turned to Mary and took a long look at her, then gazed at the portrait again.

“Is Miss Fanny Godwin a good likeness of her mother?” she asked.

Mary’s stiffening told me she felt the slight. “She is my mother’s exact size and can wear her clothing.”

“And her face?”

“Fanny is very quiet,” I volunteered.

“A peaceful and plain creature,” Mary added.

“Her father, is he still living?” asked the princess, not looking away from the portrait. Indeed, she lifted the candle to examine some detail.

“Mr. Imlay, if that is who you mean, had no interest in her once Mother was dead, I’m told,” Mary said. “Papa has always been her father.”

“I have read Mr. Godwin’s biography of your mother.” The princess set the candle down. “It is tragic. I am happy to have married as I did.”

“Do you have children?” Mary asked.

“Do they look like you?” I added.

The princess smiled at us, but Mamma interrupted before she could respond. “Go downstairs, Mary, and make us a pot of tea. Jane, light the parlor fire. We will descend in a moment, Your Royal Highness.”

Mary and I left the room together after a joined glance at Mamma’s steely face, hugging the wall along the staircase to reduce the groaning of the tired steps.

“I do wish someone would take a hammer and nails to this riser,” Mary grumbled, kicking a piece back into place.

“With ownership in dispute, there is no one to maintain it,” I pointed out.

“And all of the rent money Papa doesn’t need to pay goes to feeding distinguished visitors.” Mary dropped to the bottom step and put her head in her hands. “Can you imagine? A real princess in Skinner Street?”

“It is desperately exciting,” I agreed.

“There will be many such people coming into London now,” Mary said. “We should get a look at as many of them as possible, to store up in our imaginations.”

“Pulling yourself away from natural philosophy for a few months?” I teased.

“My education must be well-rounded,” Mary said. “I have often thought that Mother didn’t write until she was nearly thirty because she needed to bank enough experience first.”

I wondered how Mary thought she would do that. At heart, I thought her a more conventional sort than her mother. I had the spirit of a philosopher much more than Mary did. She wasn’t even an atheist like me. “You will have to do the same.”

“I am conscious of the issue,” Mary said. “I will stuff my brain like a Christmas pudding and hope it all spills out again long before I’m middle-aged.”

“There is only so much you can fit into such a tiny carapace,” I said, reaching through the fluff to knock gently on her skull. “But you will try, poor thing.”

“At least I have six months more learning than you.” She batted my hand away. “I suppose I should fetch the tea.”

“I should light the fire,” I said agreeably.

We didn’t move. The windows were set rather high in the walls and door, so we couldn’t see out, but torches flashed as people passed by in the growing dark. We had sat quite late at dinner, given our fascination for our guests and theirs for us.

“Why do you suppose they were interested in Fanny?” I asked.

“She is the oldest, and they seem far more interested in Mother’s fame than Papa’s.”

“I suppose his was far greater in those years.”

“He is a man.” Mary sighed. “You can see by the number of portraits painted of him as a young man that he was well-respected.”

I smelled the mold and mildew always wafting through the air. “He has lived long enough to be forgotten.”

“We are lucky to have Shelley to shore us up, or at least he will do, when the loans come through.” Mary reached for the banister and hoisted herself. It listed but held under her slight weight.

I didn’t risk it, being a more robust specimen.

A half hour later, we were gathered around the parlor fire, teacups in hand. Considering she was a princess and possessed almost unworldly beauty, Her Royal Highness was friendly and pleasant. She told us about her children in surprisingly good English. I didn’t mind giving up the more comfortable chair for a stool.

She shared a charming story about her eldest daughter, Marina, who was just a little older than us and loved dogs. They had a number of them, and she counted off their names on her fingers. She also had a baby, left behind in Russia with his nurse, and a daughter who was still a young child. After each birth—not all of which had resulted in a child who lived to grow up, sadly—she’d been gifted with a ring, and she wore three on each hand, all gold. She and Mamma traded tales about her daughter Sophia compared to Willy, just a few years older. Mamma was positively jovial, and I could see she was making a good impression, which was not always the case.

Mary had pulled a stump of a pencil and piece of paper from somewhere and was making notes as they spoke, hidden in a squashy corner armchair in the gloom. Mamma didn’t notice.

Papa came in with the Naryshkin men. The women quieted so that the men could discourse. I amused myself by making responses no one cared to hear in my head with their thick accents. Occasionally, a question was directed at Mary. She had to put away her pencil, even though Mamma answered most of the questions before she could.

After a while, my back began to ache from sitting on the stool. Mamma took the princess out of the room to refresh herself, and when they returned, that seemed to be the signal to leave.

Some ten minutes more were passed praising pretty Mary and suggesting Fanny be brought home so they could meet her before they returned to Russia in a few months. No one paid me any notice.

At least not until Mamma bleated, “Tidy up in here,” into my ear, as everyone else returned to the front hall. Mary had already been sent downstairs with the teacups.

Charles smirked and tweaked one of my curls as he passed. I shut the door behind him, to conserve the heat, then flopped down on the sofa. Body heat had warmed the fabric and my aching back relaxed into it.

I felt something poking into my bottom as my senses calmed. Frowning, I rearranged my skirts. A small item pressed against my finger. In the front hall, the only door into the house and bookshop opened and closed. A horse whinnied, and I imagined the Russians helping their beautiful princess into the carriage, then riding off into the night. I stood when I could no longer tolerate the pressure. I ran my fingers along the sofa until I found the small object, probably one of Willy’s marbles, then took it over to the fire so I could see what it was.

A gemstone winked at me, catching the fire. I lifted it to the candelabra on the mantelpiece. The mirror reflected my fine dark eyes and wild curls back to myself. I checked my hand. A gold ring with a red stone was in my palm! The princess must have dropped it. I’d noticed how expressive she was with her hands.

I ran to the window. The carriage had gone, taking the owner of the ring with it. I returned to the fire and examined the ring with my fingers and eyes. It had no markings. I could tell the stone wasn’t a garnet. It seemed to have a deeper color. Could it be something truly valuable?

My first instinct was to tell Mamma, but what if she kept the ring for herself? Money was hard to come by in this household. Why could I not be as dishonest as she?

Chortling to myself, I closed my fist around the ring and ran upstairs. My private chamber was one long space, stretching the length of the house. I had no lock on the door but plenty of space, if not perfect privacy. I glanced around, then settled on my trunk. We had washed and put away most of our winter things at the start of this week.

I unlocked the trunk and pulled out a thick woolen sock, then dropped the ring in. It would do. My vanity desired that I put the ring on and parade in front of my little mirror, but Mary might come in at any moment to prattle about our guests. I closed and relocked the trunk, then turned around and sat on it, exhausted by my subterfuge. The ring would do me no good if I could not turn it into coin, but that was a matter for another day, another month even, when the Russians had returned to their frozen lands.

Washing day nearly trumped bookshop duties on Monday. Mamma forced Charles to mind the bookshop along with our porter and hauled Mary and me into the back garden to do the heavy work along with Polly, the maid. When she’d started with us, she’d thought our household a step up from the orange merchant’s house where she’d been a maid-of-all-work, but after a few days of listening to Thérèse, Polly had lost her self-satisfied smile at the improvement in her lot. Now she was nearly as sullen as Mary and Charles.

I was stirring the kettle with the white clothing when a window opened in the schoolroom. Willy peeked out and waved at me. I blew curls out of my eyes and waved back, then felt a rush of dizziness. Blinking hard, I steadied myself on the stirring stick. A cracking sound caught my attention, then the stick broke in half, nearly launching me into the boiling water. I stumbled back.

“Jane!” Mother growled around a mouth full of clothes-pegs.

I put my hand to my head. After a moment, my nerves steadied, and I fished out the broken stick with tongs.

“What is wrong with you?” Mary asked from the washboard, where she was scrubbing blood out of rags.

“I didn’t sleep well.” My voice didn’t sound right to me. Surely my tossing and turning hadn’t been over my theft of the princess’s ring. Mary would say I had done worse things than that and slept like I was cradled by angel’s wings.

She looked down at her bucket of rags, then back at me. “Go into the house to cool down, and come back with another stick,” she advised.

“There are some in the scullery.” I walked off, my back stiffened against Mamma’s yell, but she didn’t argue.

I felt a wave of dizziness again when I went inside, and then I needed my chamber pot. Instead of going down to the scullery, I rounded the staircase to go up. The first floor was silent, a bad sign which meant no customers in the bookshop, but I heard voices on the second, coming from the study.

My vision swayed. Had the Russians returned to retrieve the ring? I dumped out the wildflowers I’d placed in my listening glass, then took the glass to the door, ignoring the pain in my midsection.

“You have nothing to worry about.” I heard Papa’s rumble loud and clear. My fingers convulsed around the glass as I thought about how to sneak the ring downstairs to the sofa. I’d better do it now, while Mamma’s and Mary’s watchful gazes were safely outside.

“You owe me a great deal,” said an English voice. “How can I possibly have nothing to worry about?”

After a moment’s confusion, I recognized the voice. The moneylender John Cannon, who had been treated to a nice meal and the presence of the entire family about once a month since Papa had borrowed a thousand pounds from him late last year. He called regularly, which was a source of great stress on the household.

“We had a visit from part of the Russian delegation,” Papa said.

“What does that have to do with our arrangement?” John Cannon said in a steely tone.

“Pavel Naryshkin, the brother of the tsar’s hofmeister, has promised one thousand guineas worth of diamonds in pledge to the Juvenile Library,” Papa said, the words ringing in my incredulous ears.

“Does he know they will go to nothing but paying down your impressive debt?” asked the moneylender.

“It is no business of his what I do with the money. Those in need are entitled to funds from those who have them.”

“What does he think the money is going for?” Mr. Cannon persisted.

“My pressing money problems will be solved with this gift,” Papa said, ignoring the question.

“Will they?” asked the acid-voiced moneylender.

I heard Papa’s hand come down on his desk. “Very well, I can see your patience is at an end. I will repay you, sir, my loan balance in full.”

“I think you owe more than a thousand guineas,” said Mr. Cannon.

“I do not,” Papa said. “I will pay you nothing at all if you do not agree. I will even hand you the diamonds myself, and if you can get a better price for them, then all the better for you.”

“And if the price is less?”

“That is your failing, sir.”

“I will see these diamonds before I agree to this,” Mr. Cannon said. “I know better than to trust you, sir.”

“What a thing to say to an honest family man. When I was only responsible for myself, I never owed any man a penny. Now it is different, with five children to feed, but I am still a man of honor.”

“I understand you have sent one of your mouths away, and three of the remaining four work in your business, so you don’t need employees. I wonder how you have quite this much trouble feeding them.” I heard the sneer, and a chair pushing back.

Tiptoeing away, I set the glass on the plate and tossed the flowers back in before running upstairs, hugging the wall. I agreed with Mr. Cannon. Surely the Russians meant for their diamonds to go to Mary Wollstonecraft’s daughters and not her widower’s loans. Poor Fanny, sent away to be an unpaid governess. She asked for no dignity and received none either. Mary, I knew, was too resourceful not to find a way to escape. She’d been gone to Scotland most of the past year, and she’d find a way to leave again. I did not know how to hold onto her and was loath to try. I needed to make my own way, even if a bit of larceny came into play. At least the ring didn’t contain a diamond, so it couldn’t be a part of what Mr. Naryshkin had promised.

I tossed my head when I reached the top of the stairs, feeling sweaty ringlets flow around the back of my neck. I needn’t feel guilty about keeping it in my possession. No one cared about Mary Jane Godwin’s children.

On Tuesday, I had the bookshop counter in my charge while Mary was meant to be dusting. Mamma said she didn’t trust Polly to dust the parlor, since it had to be fit for royalty and Polly had slovenly tendencies. I’d seen Mary tuck her paper and pencil into her pocket, and I suspected she’d clean out the coal clinkers from the fireplace and ignore the rest in favor of working on Isabella, the Penitent, or some maudlin work of poetry.

I wondered why she couldn’t finish her novel. I’d reminded her that her mother’s first novel, Mary, was quite short, but she’d pointed out that Papa’s first novel, Caleb Williams, was quite long and had been much more successful.

She’d also said she might not have quite enough life experience yet to finish a novel, but Mary Wollstonecraft had been naught but a governess when she wrote Mary, so I didn’t see the problem. I did see the danger, though, implicit in gathering more life experience.

The inner door into Mamma’s office opened. She stomped through the bookshop muttering to herself, passed through the shop door, and had not returned by the time an anemic young tutor came in to pick up copybooks and Aesop.

Papa came in as church bells struck eleven, with a collection of pencils he wanted me to shar. . .