Murder at Everley Manor

by Rick Kenner

Synopsis

Murder at Everley Manor
By Rick Kenner

When Elizabeth Harrington is summoned back to her childhood home, the imposing Everley Manor, she expects strained family dinners and long-buried tensions. Instead, she finds herself at the center of a chilling murder mystery. Her father, the powerful yet enigmatic Lord Edmund Harrington, is discovered dead under suspicious circumstances, shattering the family’s fragile façade.

As secrets and lies unravel, Elizabeth must navigate a labyrinth of motives, including hidden debts, blackmail, and old grudges. Everyone at the manor—from her charming yet reckless brother Thomas to the enigmatic Colonel Pembroke—seems to have something to hide. With the sharp-eyed Inspector Thornton determined to uncover the truth, Elizabeth takes it upon herself to piece together the clues before the killer strikes again.

Set against the backdrop of a gothic English estate, Murder at Everley Manor is a spellbinding tale of betrayal, intrigue, and family drama that will keep you guessing until the very last page. Perfect for fans of Agatha Christie and Downton Abbey.

 

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Release date: December 1, 2024

Sample

Prologue: A Whisper Beneath the Oak

Night had long since cloaked Everley’s orchards, and the moon offered only a faint silver rim to the silent fields. Beneath the old oak—its gnarled limbs reaching like questioning arms into the star-scattered sky—two figures stood close, their voices low and urgent. The orchard wind carried the scent of damp earth and unfallen fruit, as if nature itself held its breath, uncertain.

Lord Harrington tried to appear calm, though his heart thumped in his chest. He clutched a small ledger, its pages lined with accounts that did not match the estate’s official records. The discrepancy gnawed at him. Months of nagging doubts had led to this secret meeting, arranged by a letter slipped under his study door with no signature. Now here he was, lantern raised just enough to see the stranger’s hooded form.

“I received your note,” Lord Harrington said quietly, forcing steadiness into his voice. “You claim funds meant for our tenants and improvements have vanished. Into whose hands, I wonder? If you have proof, I demand it now.”

The hooded figure inclined his head. “Not proof, my lord, but guidance. There is a name—Whitcombe—whispered among financiers dealing in secret loans. Some believe your estate’s credit was pledged without your knowledge. Check the orchard ledgers, compare shipments to payments. You’ll see gaps. Perhaps someone on your staff, or an outside agent, orchestrates this theft.”

Harrington’s grip tightened on the ledger, knuckles pale in the moonlight. “Whitcombe,” he repeated, tasting the syllables of a stranger’s name. “If these dealings are true, it’s fraud. A crime against Everley’s honor.”

The unknown man stepped back, shifting in the darkness. “Honor is no shield against those who profit from silence. Should you seek the truth, be cautious. Secrets fester, my lord, and those who guard them too closely often find themselves buried beneath their weight. Whitcombe’s web spans far—agents, forged letters, secret codes. He thrives where good men hesitate.”

Lord Harrington’s breath caught, his eyes darting to the oak’s roots as though the earth might split open to reveal the dark truths buried within. The orchard, once a place of simple harvest and gentle labor, now felt tainted by invisible hands plucking at its prosperity. “Why warn me?” he asked, the weight of suspicion sharp in his voice.

“Because when shadows rise, they take more than gold,” the figure murmured. “Ask yourself, my lord, what price you’d pay to protect the things you cannot replace.” No direct answer came. Instead, the man whispered, “Because someone must resist the current. If you do nothing, these debts may bloom into poison—murderous ends and impossible knots. Act now, quietly, or risk greater horrors when these hidden forces fully emerge.”

A soft rustling in the orchard’s underbrush startled Harrington. By the time he swung the lantern to catch it, the hooded figure had slipped away, footprints fading into shadows. Silence reclaimed the orchard, but the lord’s mind churned with suspicion and dread.

He stood there, alone under the old oak, heart heavy. He did not yet know how deep this rot ran, nor that it would cost dearly in blood and sorrow. He could not imagine how this whispered name—Whitcombe—would one day force Everley’s corridors to brim with fear, and how his daughters would inherit both the peril and the courage to confront it.

For now, Lord Harrington had only a ledger of mismatched accounts, a name spoken in the hush of night, and the orchard’s quiet witness. He vowed to seek answers. Unaware that years later, when all masks fell and shadows fled, the truth would stand revealed—born under these very branches, in the breathless stillness beneath the old oak.