Murder at an English Séance

Book 8: Beryl and Edwina Mystery

by Jessica Ellicott

Genres: International Crime & Mystery; Ghost; Mystery; Supernatural suspense

Synopsis

American adventuress Beryl Halliwell and prim and proper Brit Edwina Davenport team up once again as enquiry agents to investigate a suspicious psychic in this historical English village mystery set just after World War I.

Hidden beneath her British reserve, Edwina has a secret: she’s finished her novel and is bravely mailing the manuscript to a publisher. Beryl also has a secret: as thanks for solving a case, the American adventuress has been gifted an airplane. After swooping over the fields and hedgerows of Walmsley Parva, livestock scattering beneath her, she flamboyantly lands the plane on the village green, prompting a startled Edwina to consider a stiff gin fizz.
 
Beryl’s aircraft is not the only disruption of village peace. Miss Dinsdale, a psychic medium, has started holding séances. After the church organist resigns to serve as musical accompaniment for the séances, the vicar’s wife hires the enquiry agents to expose the medium as a charlatan. Beryl is confident she can spot the fraud, having learned from Harry Houdini himself some tricks of the trade. The dubious Miss Dinsdale claims her spirit guide is an Egyptian princess whose mummy resides in a sarcophagus in the room. But the only body in the sarcophagus belongs to a murdered villager impaled with a dagger.
 
As the sleuths begin to investigate, Beryl discovers her plane has been sabotaged and wonders if there’s a connection. Whether in the air or on terra firma, Beryl and Edwina must go round a circle of suspects to divine the culprit . . .

Release date: June 25, 2024

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

Edwina took a final look at the stack of typewritten pages on the desk in front of her and nodded her head, as if to convince herself that she was, in fact, ready to send the manuscript off to a publishing house for consideration. Her heart thumped wildly in her chest as she lowered the stack of crisp, white pages into a box and proceeded to wrap the parcel in brown paper.

She had procured the address for the publishing house weeks earlier, but somehow the idea that she was sending her novel off to be critiqued, and most likely rejected, by a stranger still somehow took her by surprise. It had seemed to her that she had been working away on her story for ages, and she could not quite believe that she had not only written the entire thing but had revised and corrected it until she was sure she could do no more without another person looking it over.

And although Beryl, Simpkins, and even her friend Charles had proven staunch supporters of her fledgling literary efforts, she could not bring herself to let them know she had finished the task. After all, one of them might ask to read it. The very idea made her slim frame shudder, from her neatly trimmed bob to her sensibly shod feet.

No, this was a part of the experience she would keep to herself, at least for the time being. Not that she thought it likely that she would be able to keep the news of it to herself for long, not with the way Prudence Rathbone, the local postmistress, alerted everyone in the village to the business of their neighbors. Edwina’s hand shook as she poised a pen over the wrapped parcel with the intent to inscribe the publisher’s address.

Chiding herself for her bout of nerves, she gave her head another shake and began by printing her return address. Before she could talk herself out of it, she added the address for the publisher and capped her fountain pen. The ink had feathered only slightly on the brown paper, and to her eyes, the destination appeared legible. She tucked the parcel into a drawer in her large wooden desk and firmly shoved it shut.

With her nerves still jangling, she got to her feet. Crumpet, her faithful little dog, stretched and hurried from his bed placed beneath the desk, eager to follow her wherever she was bound. She paused in the hallway and plucked her old straw gardening hat from the hall tree and shoved it onto her head. There was nothing like time amidst her beloved plants to soothe her troubles away.

Simpkins, her former jobbing gardener turned housemate, had spent considerable amounts of a newly acquired fortune on renovating the gardens at The Beeches. The war years had been hard on estates everywhere, with a downturn in the economy as well as a crippling shortage of staff to keep things in trim. For several years, the garden had been as much a source of sorrow and regret as it had pleasure. But over the last few months, it had come back into its own and even enjoyed some improvements due to Simpkins’s generosity and skills.

Crumpet capered around her feet before pausing to roll around on his back in the velvety green grass. Even though it was early October, it was the warmest one in thirty-five years, and there was still a lingering feeling of summer in the air. The roses bloomed and bloomed, despite the lateness of the season, their sweet fragrance drifting on the warm breeze. She could not remember a time when they had persisted so long into the autumn.

Michaelmas daisies and stonecrop offered up a fine show of late blossoms as well. Grasses topped with waving plumes swayed in a new border near the edge of the potting shed that Simpkins still retired to for a portion of each day. He might have moved into the house, but old habits die hard, especially for a man as set in his ways as Simpkins. She crossed the lawn and peeked into the shed to see if he was within. Inside, there was nothing to see but tidy rows of clay pots and sacks of daffodil and tulip bulbs awaiting their turns to be tucked up into the prepared garden beds.

Perhaps he was having a bit of a lie-in. After all, she had been abed for some time the previous night when he and Beryl had returned from the pub. He was not as young as he used to be, not that any of them were, and from the sound of his cheerful crooning, she had concluded that he had perhaps partaken of an ill-considered quantity of strong drink. She was not one to do so herself, but she had an inkling that such an overindulgence might incline one to keep to bed late the next day.

Beddoes, her cherished housekeeper, bustled out of the scullery door, a wicker basket piled high with linen resting on her hip. Edwina knew better than to offer to assist her in pinning the wash to the clothesline stretched between two poles at the far side of the kitchen garden. Beddoes was an old-fashioned, proper sort of servant who would take enormous offense to such a suggestion, and Edwina would not wish to insult her.

Instead, she made her way in the opposite direction to the summerhouse to sit. She would have appreciated the distraction that hanging out the wash would have provided from her thoughts about the fate of her novel, but she would not risk her housekeeper’s wrath. Beddoes was likely not yet recovered from Beryl’s insistence in helping out with a major bottoming out of the house a few weeks earlier that had almost resulted in her resignation.

She leaned back against the wicker settee, marveling that the temperatures were still warm enough to enjoy the outdoors without even a lightweight jumper. Crumpet hopped up onto the seat next to her and pressed his wiry body against her leg. She stroked his fur absent-mindedly as she considered when might be best to attempt to slip away to post her manuscript without Beryl offering to accompany her. She looked back over her shoulder toward the house. She couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching her.

Beryl stood at the window, watching, as her dear friend came into sight. Edwina had been behaving secretively lately, and Beryl could only surmise that it had something to do with her novel. It had been some months since she had become aware of her friend’s passion project and even less time since Edwina had admitted to the truth of it. Her friend was a very private person, and although Beryl could not understand keeping one’s light under a bushel herself, she did realize that was Edwina’s way. There had been a recent flurry of typewriter keys clacking loudly at all hours from the office of sorts Edwina had set up for herself in the library. But over the past two days, such noises had ceased. When she had lurked outside the firmly shut library door from time to time, she had heard nothing whatsoever. She sincerely hoped that the silence did not mean that Edwina had come to some sort of impasse with her book.

It was just as well, Beryl thought, that Edwina was so preoccupied with secrets of her own. After all, Beryl had something up her own elegantly costumed sleeve. Edwina would surely raise objections if she knew ahead of time what was in store for the pair of them. Beryl knew that, once it was a fait accompli, Edwina would find herself hard-pressed to make more than a routine objection. She waited until she noticed her friend was settled in the summerhouse and then moved swiftly away from the window and down the stairs. Following the sound of humming, she tracked Simpkins to the kitchen, where he sat with his hobnailed boots firmly ensconced beneath the well-scrubbed kitchen table.

Beddoes, the imperious housekeeper, was mercifully nowhere in sight. Over the last few weeks, she had become less of a thorn in the domestic servant’s side, but that did not mean things were at all easy between them. Beryl gave her a wide berth whenever possible, and considering the nature of her desire to see Simpkins, she was particularly grateful for Beddoes to be elsewhere. After all, it was abundantly clear that the housekeeper’s loyalties lay exclusively with Edwina. It would not do for her to overhear what Beryl had in mind. Simpkins looked up from his plate of toast and marmalade and gave her a toothy grin. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand before speaking.

“I’m just trialing the latest offering from Colonel Kimberly’s. Grapefruit and ginger it is,” he said, holding a piece of toast aloft for her to inspect. “Would you care for a piece?”

As much as Beryl was in the habit of accepting provisions whenever offered—a habit long-standing of her traveling lifestyle, in which one never knew how often a meal would be available—she shook her head firmly. There was no time for such pleasures when an adventure was afoot.

“No, thank you. I’m sneaking off to deal with that errand we discussed. I want to head out before Edwina sees me leave. If she asks, you haven’t seen me, all right?” she said.

“You know I make it my policy never to tell untruths to Miss Edwina,” Simpkins said, taking another bite of his toast.

“And you know I make it my policy never to mention to her what you get up to in the potting shed of an afternoon, just you and a hip flask. Neither of us wishes to disabuse Edwina of her belief that you spend your time in there coaxing along new seedlings and sharpening your secateurs, now do we?” Beryl said.

Simpkins drew himself up to his full, lanky height and managed to look offended. “There’s no need to take that tone. I won’t spill your secret, and I expect you not to spill mine.”

“Both of us know the value of not spilling a drop, now, don’t we?” Beryl said, giving him the warm smile for which she was justifiably famous. Many’s the time she and Simpkins had carefully, one might even say gingerly, managed not to waste a single bit of a flask they passed between the two of them well out of Edwina’s sight.

“So, today’s the day then, is it?” Simpkins said, clearly not willing to hold a grudge.

“Indeed, it is. And not a moment too soon, I might add. I’ve been feeling rather restless since we returned from London, and I think this might be just what the doctor ordered.”

“Miss Edwina hasn’t been herself lately either, now you come to mention it,” Simpkins said. “I hope she’s not feeling a bit down because of the encroaching winter.”

Simpkins had been a part of Edwina’s daily life for far longer than Beryl had. As the jobbing gardener who was the son of the previous gardener, he had been raised at The Beeches, Edwina’s family home. While he was the same age as Edwina’s mother, he had known Edwina for her entire life. During the years when Beryl had been traveling throughout the world on one adventure or another, setting land- and air-speed records, Simpkins had been at The Beeches, with his hobnailed boots firmly planted on his native soil. If anyone would know how shortening lengths of days might affect Edwina, it would be him.

After all, with both of her parents and her brother in their graves, there was no one else who knew her quite so well. An involuntary shudder rose up along Beryl’s spine. She hated to consider that her friend might find herself back in the unfortunate state in which she had discovered her almost a year ago. When Beryl had arrived at The Beeches in response to an advertisement for a lodger, she had been shocked at the state of both the house and her old friend. But in the intervening months, both the property and its mistress had come warmly back to life. Beryl thought it likely that her plans would continue to provide a bright spark in both their lives.

“I think it may have a bit more to do with her novel. I haven’t heard much in the way of typing lately, and I wonder if she’s come to some sort of a crossroads.”

“You don’t suppose she suffered from some sort of writer’s block, do you?” Simpkins asked.

Beryl shrugged her broad shoulders. “I really couldn’t say. All I know is the sound of typing has entirely vanished over the last couple of days. And she’s been wandering about, looking somewhat far away. But as she isn’t actually off the premises, I need to skedaddle before she starts asking questions. Remember what I said—not a word.”

Simpkins nodded and raised a piece of toast in a sort of salute. Through the kitchen window, Beryl caught sight of Beddoes heading toward her, a wicker laundry basket balanced on her slim hip. She turned on her heel and hurried off to the front hallway before either the maid or her friend could catch her.

Edwina collected her best hat from the hall tree and arranged it carefully on her head. Her manuscript, wrapped carefully in brown paper and twine, was secreted down into the bottom of her market basket. No one would pay any attention to her parcel as she made her way toward the post office. She had been relieved not to encounter Beryl as she returned from the garden, finally resolved upon heading for the post.

Her little dog, Crumpet, gazed up at her with a look of expectation as she turned away from the hall tree and took up her basket. She considered whether or not she would be best served allowing him to accompany her. Generally, she found his companionship very welcome, and indeed distracting, if she had troubles on her mind. That said, she didn’t particularly wish to think of her novel as any sort of trouble. And she did think it possible that she might wish to make a quicker escape than was possible when encumbered by a curious and constantly sniffing dog. She determined to make it up to him on a walk later in the day, and steeling herself against his recriminating glances, she told him to stay.

The walk into the village did not take very long, especially when she was not accompanied by Crumpet’s constant insistence on stopping every few feet to investigate. In almost too little time, she found herself within sight of the post office. Her stomach trembled with nerves as she considered the barrage of enquiries, she was certain Prudence Rathbone, the postmistress, would feel duty bound to make. As the most confirmed gossip in the village of Walmsley Parva, Prudence would be certain to make much of the address on the parcel. It wasn’t as though Edwina could simply slip it into the drop box. No, such a thing would need to be weighed and the postage calculated. In order for that to be done, the address would have to be noted.

Confronted with that reality, she felt unequal to the challenge. The gravitational pull of a fortifying cup of tea was impossible to resist. Almost without thinking to do so, her feet carried her toward the door of the Silver Spoon Tea Room, and before she could stop herself, she pushed open the door and stepped inside the cheerful space. Minnie Mumford, the proprietress, glanced up from her task of placing a towering tray of freshly baked scones and tiny tea sandwiches in front of an unfamiliar woman. Edwina could smell the aroma of the scones from the doorway. Her stomach gave a loud rumble, and she realized, with a start, that she had not bothered to partake of any breakfast. She glanced at the clock on the wall and realized it was almost eleven. The perfect time to tuck into a bit of a meal, even if one was suffering from a nervous tummy.

“Good morning, Edwina. It’s good to see you,” Minnie said, as though they did not find themselves on committees and organizations together several times a week. It must be the stranger who was responsible for Minnie’s excess friendliness. Not that the owner of the tea room was ever anything but pleasant and welcoming. How could she remain in business if she were not? After all, unlike the post office, one did not absolutely need a tea room. No, Minnie was always amiable. Edwina gave the stranger a second glance.

“Likewise, Minnie. Those scones certainly look good this morning,” Edwina said. “Although, to tell the truth, yours always do,” she said. Minnie gave the briefest of nods, as if in gratitude for Edwina’s endorsement.

“How kind of you to say,” Minnie said. She turned to include the other woman in the conversation. “Please allow me to introduce Miss Maude Dinsdale. She has recently moved to the village.”

The woman looked up at Edwina appraisingly. Apparently satisfied with what she saw, she nodded her head and gave Edwina a polite smile. The woman appeared to be of average height and build, with mousy-brown, slightly graying hair and a gently softened jawline. Edwina would put her at approximately forty-five to fifty years of age and possessed of an altogether unremarkable demeanor. Her dress was conservative, if not slightly outdated, and in no way designed to attract particular notice: a serviceable navy-blue blouse and matching long skirt, from what Edwina could make out as the other woman sat with her legs tucked beneath her at one of the many small tables clustered about the tea room. Sensible shoes with a high degree of polish clad her feet, and she sat with her ankles neatly crossed. Upon her head was a modest but flattering hat that Edwina took particular note of, being a millinery enthusiast herself.

“It’s nice to meet you, Miss Dinsdale. I’m Edwina Davenport. It’s always a pleasure to welcome newcomers to the village,” she said.

“How kind of you. And, please, call me Maude. Would you be willing to join me?” Maude said. “Minnie has been telling me all about you.”

While Edwina felt slightly taken aback by Maude’s statement, it should not truly have come as a surprise. While Prudence Rathbone was the most determined gossip in the village, Minnie Mumford came in a close second. That said, Prudence’s inclination was to spread the most titillating and unflattering bits of information between villagers. Minnie simply liked to know what was going on and had no real interest in making anyone out to be a bad sort. Edwina was quite sure that anything Minnie had disclosed about her would not be unflattering or embarrassing in any way.

“It would be a pleasure,” Edwina said, as she pulled out one of the chairs at Maude’s table and settled herself in it. She drew off her gloves and placed them in her market basket before tucking it and her precious parcel close by her chair on the floor.

Edwina ordered a pot of tea as well as a plate of scones and sandwiches of her own. Her stomach rumbled again, and she hoped it was not loud enough for her dining companion to hear.

“Minnie tells me that you are a private-enquiry agent,” Maude said, a note of awe tinging her voice.

Edwina still felt a jolt of pride every time she was able to acquiesce that that was indeed the case. It had only been a few months since Beryl had wended her way back into Edwina’s life, bringing with her an air of excitement and a sense of adventure. With her friend’s urging and the convergence of circumstance, Edwina had found her life transformed from that of a quiet country spinster into a detective with a growing business and track record of success. It hardly seemed possible that, in so little time, her life would be so completely transformed, but indeed it had. She sneaked a quick glance at the basket by her feet and wondered how much more her life might expand should her novel become published. She glanced back up at her companion and nodded.

“That’s right. I run an agency with my dear friend, Beryl Helliwell. And what is it that brings you to Walmsley Parva?” she asked.

Before the woman could answer herself, Minnie piped up. She plopped the plate of scones and sandwiches onto the table in front of Edwina before speaking. “She’s a psychic medium, here to refresh herself from her recent activities in London,” she said almost breathlessly.

Whatever Edwina had expected Minnie to say, a psychic medium was the farthest from her thoughts. Edwina did not hold with such things herself, in particular, and had recently been put off from that notion altogether by the discomfort such activities had brought to an old friend. The cook at the finishing school Beryl and Edwina had attended as young girls, and where they, in fact, had first become acquainted, had found herself regretting her decision to employ a psychic medium in the hopes of contacting her dearly departed grandson, one of the many unfortunate casualties of the Great War.

No, Edwina was not as enchanted as Minnie by the notion of a psychic medium in their midst. Still, it would not do to appear unwelcoming to a new neighbor. And perhaps the woman was not truly a charlatan but rather a misguided individual who was eager to provide comfort to the bereaved.

“How did you come to choose our little village?” Edwina asked. She loved Walmsley Parva with all her heart, but even she had to admit it was not a place well known across the country.

“I met Hazel Moffat whilst we were both on holiday in Bournemouth a few weeks ago, and she spoke so highly of Walmsley Parva that I determined it was just the sort of place I had been looking for after spending several years moving about from pillar to post.”

“Maude has consented to offer séances now that she is here,” Minnie said.

“Really?” Edwina said, hoping that her voice betrayed none of her skepticism.

“Are you familiar with the world of spirit?” Maude asked.

“I’m afraid that is outside of my purview. I tend to be one who feels more in step with the world of the living,” Edwina said. Which was entirely true. While she prided herself on her imagination when it came to the creation of her novel, in her day-to-day life, she preferred to be more firmly rooted in the practical. In fact, her sensible nature and interest in the truth had led to her being offered the position of local magistrate. It was a duty she undertook with a strong sense of purpose. She could not imagine weighing up psychic evidence in a court of law.

From the eager look on Minnie Mumford’s face, it would not seem that the tea-shop owner shared her view on such things. In fact, Minnie took it upon herself to pull out a third chair at the table and to sit herself down beside them. Over the next few minutes, as Edwina attended to her rumbling stomach, Minnie peppered Maude with question after question about séances she had conducted and spirits she had encountered. Before long, the poor woman looked as though she was ready to flee. Edwina found herself feeling rather sorry for her.

Any attempts on Maude’s part to steer the conversation into other realms were roundly thwarted by Minnie, who could not be dissuaded from her enthusiasm for all things otherworldly. By the time Maude had drained the last drop of tea from her cup she was casting furtive glances at the door. Edwina took pity on her and removed her serviette from her lap and placed it on the table in the universal sign of completion.

“Maude, have you visited the local post office to set up your new address?” she asked, arching one eyebrow high enough to indicate conspiracy.

Maude was capable of taking a hint. She placed her own serviette across her plate and pushed back her chair. “I entirely forget to take care of that bit of business. Would you be able to direct me to the post office?” she asked.

“I’m just heading there myself.” She gestured toward Minnie as she rose and grasped the handle of her basket. “Minnie, please put this on my account, and I’ll settle up with you later.” Before she could convince herself to back out of it, she hurried toward the door an. . .