Lady Montfort has been planning her annual summer costume ball for months, and with scrupulous care. Pulling together the food, flowers and a thousand other details for one of the most significant social occasions of the year is her happily accepted responsibility. But when her husband's degenerate nephew is found murdered, it's more than the ball that is ruined. In fact, Lady Montfort fears that the official police enquiry, driven by petty snobbery and class prejudice, is pointing towards her son as a potential suspect.
Taking matters into her own hands, the rather over-imaginative countess enlists the help of her pragmatic housekeeper, Mrs. Jackson, to investigate the case, track down the women that vanished the night of the murder, and clear her son's name. As the two women search for a runaway housemaid and a headstrong young woman, they unearth the hidden lives of Lady Montfort's close friends, servants and family and discover the identity of a murderer hiding in plain sight.
In this enchanting debut sure to appeal to fans of Downton Abbey, Tessa Arlen draws readers into a world exclusively enjoyed by the rich, privileged classes and suffered by the men and women who serve them. Death of a Dishonorable Gentleman is an elegant mystery filled with intriguing characters and fascinating descriptions of Edwardian life—a superb treat for those who love British novels.
Release date:
January 6, 2015
Publisher:
St. Martin's Publishing Group
Print pages:
320
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Rees had planned to drive straight down to Salem's harbor to look for a shop. Although he wove enough to keep his wife and children clothed and some extra besides to sell, he could not duplicate the colors or the patterns imported from India by this great sailing center. And he certainly could not weave muslin so fine it was almost transparent or beautiful Chinese silks; he especially wanted to purchase a quantity of the latter for his wife. But on the way to the harbor he was stopped by a funeral procession heading northeast on Essex Street. Rees pulled up next to a farmer with a wagon full of hay and jumped down from his seat. Bessie, his fourth mare of the same name, was more skittish than the earlier three horses and was already beginning to dance and shy. Rees clutched her bridle and crooned wordlessly to settle her.
"You a weaver?" The hay farmer standing next to Rees threw a glance at the canvas-covered loom in the wagon bed. Rees nodded.
"Not much call for weavers in Salem."
"I know. I came south from the District of Maine; most of the farmwives in Maine and northwest of here will never manage to travel into Salem." Rees had left his family to embark on this weaving trip two weeks ago. They needed the money, that was true-but if he were honest, Rees would admit he had also needed to escape the chaos of his suddenly enlarged brood.
A frantic plea for help from their old friend Mouse this past winter had sent Rees and Lydia rushing to New York. Mouse had been accused of a murder, and after solving it, Rees and his wife had adopted the murder victim's five young orphans. Neither Rees nor his wife had been able to abandon them to the cruel indifference of the town selectmen in Dover Springs, where they'd lived. These children had brought happiness into Rees's life but also constant noise and upset. And Rees's fifteen-year-old son, David, resented the addition of the new children to the family so much he had moved to the weaver's cottage and spoke to his father only when absolutely necessary.
Then there was Caroline. Rees groaned at the thought. Caroline's demands had become relentless. She blamed him for striking her husband, a blow that left Sam touched in the head and unable to work. Now she thought her brother should support her family. Although Rees did feel responsible and he was willing to assist her, he would not allow her to move in with him and his family. Not again, not after the terrible way she'd treated David the last time she'd been charged with caring for him.
Rees pushed away that unwelcome guilt. "I thought I would stop and purchase some imported cloth for my family. Calicoes and such."
"Here comes the Boothe family," said the farmer.
Rees inspected the matched set of four black horses pulling the carriage slowly down the street. Black plumes and rosettes decorated the bridles and ebony bunting was swagged around the vehicle's windows and door. Because of the heat this bright June day, the shade was not drawn, and Rees had a clear view of a man sitting with his head bowed and a sobbing girl in the seat across from him.
"Jacob Boothe and his daughter, Margaret. And the rest of the family beside them," murmured the farmer.
"They seem to be important."
"Indeed, yes," the farmer replied. "Jacob Boothe is one of our most successful merchants. He is a good man, fair to all. It's his wife, Anstiss, who died. Poor lady, barely forty, or so I'm told. She leaves four children. And Jacob is prostrate. He doesn't deserve this. But God does as He wills..." The farmer turned his gaze upon Rees. "You know, if you're in town anyway, you should attend the averil. It'll be at the Boothe home as soon as the poor lady is put to rest at Burying Point. Plenty of good food and drink." Rees shook his head; he didn't want to stop in Salem longer than he had to.
"You could follow me over," the farmer said in a persuasive voice.
Rees prepared to refuse the invitation, but before he could push out the words, he thought he saw someone he knew: the undertaker swinging his silver baton as he strode before the wagon with the coffin-surely that tall, long-limbed man with the jerky movements was Rees's old friend Twig. "Twig," Rees shouted. "Twig!" During the War for Independence, Twig, more formally known as Stephen Eaton, had saved Rees's life by tackling a Redcoat just as he was about to run Rees through with a bayonet. Twig and Rees had remained comrades throughout the War. Twig's head swiveled as he searched the crowd. When he spotted Rees, he used his baton to wave and gesture forward. Then he moved past. "Thank you," Rees said, turning to the farmer. "I will be happy to follow you."
The farmer nodded and pointed to the carriage following the coffin. "That's the Coville family; Anstiss's mother and brothers. Big whaling family." Although the Covilles rode in a carriage, it was not as big as the Boothe's and the horses that drew it were a mismatched lot: a white mare next to an ordinary chestnut and two brown geldings. Mrs. Coville's face was buried in a handkerchief and all Rees could see of her was her black silk bonnet. Even from the side of the road, he could hear the guttural cries of the young man sitting across from her.
"Anstiss's brother Dickie," said the farmer. "By all accounts, he was much attached to his sister."
"What a shame," Rees said. Even now, as an adult, he could remember how devastated the death of his infant brother had left him and his mother.
"Yes. Anstiss was a great beauty in her day. But she's been ill for a long time."
The last of the procession rumbled past, and all the onlookers rushed to their own conveyances. Rees scrambled up on his wagon seat and fell into the line of traffic, right behind the farmer, as he drove further into Salem town and toward the averil at the Boothe home.
* * *
"You stole her from us!" The scream broke into Rees's conversation and he turned to look. A young man with the lanky unfinished look of someone in his mid-teens staggered across the floor; it was Dickie Coville. "You took Anstiss away from us and now she's dead," the boy shouted. The buzz of conversation faded as everyone turned to stare. "You!" His wavering forefinger pointed at Margaret Boothe, standing with her father. "It's your fault she's dead."
"Now, Dickie," Mr. Boothe said as he stepped toward the weeping boy. "All of us grieve for Anstiss." Moisture glittered in his eyes but he willed it away. "I miss her so much."
Rees admired the man's control in the hour after his wife's funeral. He knew how he would feel if Lydia died. Just the thought of it left a gaping emptiness in his belly and brought moisture to his eyes. He quickly wiped away his tears. Twig turned and threw his old comrade a questioning glance.
Before Jacob Boothe reached Dickie, two men, Dickie's brothers by the resemblance between them all, rushed forward to the boy. The taller and older of the two extended his hand to Jacob Boothe.
"I am glad to see you here, Adam," Jacob said, grasping the proffered hand. "And Edward." He turned to the other man, who had grabbed Dickie and was dragging him to the inside door.
"Please forgive Dickie," Adam Coville said. "He misses Anstiss terribly, and I fear he has already partaken of your very fine Madeira."
"Of course I forgive him," Jacob said. "We all loved Anstiss."
"Yes." Adam's face contorted as though he were fighting his emotion. He mastered himself and said in a voice that trembled only slightly, "Dickie has always been high-strung and prone to nervous fits. You know that." As Adam spoke, Edward thrust Dickie into his mother's arms. Under her black bonnet, her face was swollen and flushed with weeping.
Boothe pumped Adam's hand and with his other hand clapped his brother-in-law upon the shoulder. "It is an emotional day for all of us." Coville flinched.
"Yes, yes it is," he said in a hoarse voice. He dropped Boothe's hand abruptly. "We'll take Dickie home now. You understand. When he gets at the drink..." His voice trailed off.
"Of course. I hope we meet again under happier circumstances." Mr. Boothe reached out as though to embrace his brother-in-law again, but Adam shied away. With a bow, he hastened across the floor to rejoin his family in the inside hall. They disappeared toward the back. After a few seconds, people returned their attention to their companions or, especially in the case of the poorer sort, to the excellent repast set out for them. Boothe had not stinted upon either food or drink. Twig helped himself to more rum. Now that the excitement-and the possibility of a fight-was over, he'd lost interest in anything but the flagon in his hand and maybe a brief conversation with an old friend. But Rees, seeing tension between Mr. Boothe and his daughter, did not remove his eyes from them.
"Peggy," Mr. Coville said, reaching out for her as though he were pleading. She glared at him, tears of grief pooling in eyes still red and swollen from weeping. "No," she said in a low, furious voice as anger twisted her features. "No." She turned away from him, a shudder shivering through her, and fled into the inner hall and up the broad central stair.
Jacob Boothe's hand dropped and his head sank to his chest. Inhaling a breath so deep that Rees could hear it even from several yards' distance, Boothe pasted a smile upon his face, raised his head again, and assumed the mantle of a host. A wave of pity for the man swept over Rees.
Mr. Boothe looked around the room and then, perhaps finding something appealing in Rees's expression, approached.
He shook hands with Twig and said to Rees, "Having enough to eat and drink, I hope?" Close up, he looked every bit of his fifty years. His sandy hair was shot with gray and pouches of loose flesh hung under his eyes. But the creases fanning out from the corners of his eyes were laugh lines, and Rees thought in happier times the merchant had enjoyed his life. "I haven't seen you before."
Rees was astonished that Boothe, even in the midst of his grief, was able to express interest in a stranger. "Yes," Rees said, "I-um-came to buy some imported cloth, you know, some of that fine Indian cotton and maybe silk, and then I saw Twig..." Realizing he was stammering, Rees shut his mouth.
"Well, you won't find better than Mrs. Baldwin's Emporium, corner of Essex and Walnut streets," Mr. Boothe said, clapping Rees upon the shoulder as though they were old friends. "She's a lovely lady, a widow, you know, and her prices are fair. Tell her I sent you. She'll treat you well."
He moved on, speaking as easily to the poorest sailor as to the most affluent butcher. "He seems a fine gentleman," Rees said.
"He is," Twig agreed in a heartfelt tone. "He is well regarded by everyone." He was still as tall and angular as Rees remembered from their first meeting twenty years ago, and although a few white strands glittered in his hair he looked much the same. "So, what brings you to Salem, Will?"
"Weaving trip," Rees said. "I was north and west of here." He purposely kept his response short, reluctant to share the whole truth. Since he had injured his brother-in-law Sam, Rees had been the butt of jokes, insinuations, and outright accusations in his hometown of Dugard, Maine. Weaving commissions had dropped off, so cash was scarce. And since many men were now fearful of facing Rees directly, it was David who bore the brunt of the gossip. He often returned from town with bowed shoulders and a white line around his mouth. Rees sighed. He'd hoped all of that would die down with the arrival of good weather and farming chores, but it hadn't. If anything, it had gotten worse. So Rees had been glad to leave town for a while on this weaving trip, and earn some extra income while he was at it.
"We have no need of weavers. Ships dock here with cotton from Bombay and silk from Cathay." Twig's comment broke into Rees's thoughts.
"I thought I would purchase something for my wife."
"Ah. And you have a son, I believe?"
"Yes. David." David, who was furious with his father, especially since Rees and Lydia had returned home with several adopted children. Since David had moved out to the weaver's cottage, Rees only saw him when they were both engaged in doing chores. Their relationship was as bad as it had ever been. Rees brushed away the despair that swept over him and continued speaking. "He's the oldest. Three other boys, two girls, and baby on the way. You?"
"Not married," Twig said, but his expression was so furtive Rees wondered what secret Twig was hiding.
"But what?" Rees asked. Twig leaned in and whispered.
"I will be soon." And then, as though fearing he had said too much, Twig turned and started away. Rees grasped his sleeve.
"Wait." Now he remembered how Twig was. The manners that were pounded into most people during childhood had passed him by. "You can't leave it like that."
"Secret," he said, and folded his lips closed, his gloved hand polishing the silver ball at the end of his undertaker's baton. Since he looked ready to scurry away, Rees cast around for another topic of conversation.
"And what exactly did Mrs. Boothe die of?"
"Oh, natural causes. She's been ill for as long as I've been in Salem and that's fifteen years. Jacob Boothe was a catch for Anstiss; he was already successful and pulling in wealth with both hands. The Covilles aren't poor, you understand. But Mr. Boothe seems intent on giving King Derby and merchants like him a run for their money." He jerked his head like a startled rabbit. "They're probably in the dining room right now."
"I see." Of course, Jacob Boothe had set up a separate room for close friends and family. But he was not ignoring the poorer sort. Once again Boothe's generosity impressed Rees. "Do you enjoy being an undertaker, Twig?"
"Indeed, I do. It pays well. People keep dying. I don't mind the dead. Quiet. No trouble at all. I've got to go." He turned and hurried away, rapidly cutting through the door to the inside hall and disappearing around a corner.
Well, that was Twig. Never doing what was expected. As a soldier he'd been more likely to fling himself face down on the ground at the first sound of gunshots than to return fire. But sometimes he would hurl himself at the enemy with reckless bravery, as he had when he'd saved Rees's life.
Rees eyed the tradesmen and the poor folk around him. He did not quite dare pursue Twig into the second room where those of Boothe's social class congregated, and anyway, perhaps Twig's startling departure was for the best. It was time to leave.
He'd planned to quit Salem soon after noon and be well away by nightfall. But when he descended the front steps into the brilliant June sun he saw that it was already several hours past noon. And he still hadn't bought anything for Lydia and the children. Rees jingled the coins in his pocket. He was already so late he saw no point in hurrying now. Grabbing a sailor who was climbing the steps-people continued to enter the Boothe home for the averil-Rees solicited directions to Mrs. Baldwin's Emporium. Then he collected his horse and wagon from the stable yard behind the Boothe's house and drove into the street. From the corner of his eye he saw two more sailors, one of them black, disappear into the house.
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