Murder at Mallowan Hall

Book 1: Phyllida Bright Mystery

by Colleen Cambridge

Genres: Historical Mysteries; International Crime & Mystery

Synopsis

The first in an exciting historical mystery series set in the home of Agatha Christie!
Tucked away among Devon's rolling green hills, Mallowan Hall combines the best of English tradition with the modern conveniences of 1930. Housekeeper Phyllida Bright, as efficient as she is personable, manages the large household with an iron fist in her very elegant glove. In one respect, however, Mallowan Hall stands far apart from other picturesque country houses...
The manor is home to archaeologist Max Mallowan and his famous wife, Agatha Christie. Phyllida is both loyal to and protective of the crime writer, who is as much friend as employer. An aficionado of detective fiction, Phyllida has yet to find a gentleman in real life half as fascinating as Mrs. Agatha's Belgian hero, Hercule Poirot. But though accustomed to murder and its methods as frequent topics of conversation, Phyllida is unprepared for the sight of a very real, very dead body on the library floor...
A former Army nurse, Phyllida reacts with practical common sense--and a great deal of curiosity. It soon becomes clear that the victim arrived at Mallowan Hall under false pretenses during a weekend party. Now, Phyllida not only has a houseful of demanding guests on her hands--along with a distracted, anxious staff--but hordes of reporters camping outside. When another dead body is discovered--this time, one of her housemaids--Phyllida decides to follow in M. Poirot's footsteps to determine which of the Mallowans' guests is the killer. With help from the village's handsome physician, Dr. Bhatt, Mr. Dobble, the butler, along with other household staff, Phyllida assembles the clues. Yet, she is all too aware that the killer must still be close at hand and poised to strike again. And only Phyllida's wits will prevent her own story from coming to an abrupt end...

Release date: October 26, 2021

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

PHYLLIDA BRIGHT HAD SEEN HER SHARE OF BODIES DURING THE Great War, so when she discovered the dead man sprawled on the floor, it didn’t even occur to her to scream.

The unanticipated sight did elicit a quiet gasp of surprise and then a rush of concern, with exasperation following quickly on its heels. As if I don’t have enough to manage today, she thought as her battlefield nurse’s training kicked in and she knelt to ascertain whether the man was, in fact, actually dead.

He was quite dead—not to mention significantly bloodied due to the fountain pen protruding from the side of his neck. The stains in the library’s rug would require an extra two hours of work, and then time to dry before it could be replaced. And she didn’t even want to contemplate how long it would take to get the blood splatters off the books and wallpaper.

Nonetheless, Phyllida closed her eyes and wished a sincere Godspeed to the poor man’s soul—then added a note of gratitude that she’d been the one to discover Mr. Waring instead of Ginny, the high-pitched parlourmaid who saw to the library each morning. That would have been just the icing on the cake.

Already mentally readjusting her staff’s schedule in order to keep them clear of the library and its vicinity, as well as giving them as little opportunity as possible to gossip about the room’s unexpected contents, she rose, the ring of keys at her waist jingling pleasantly, and went for the telephone on the desk.

As she waited for the operator to connect the call, Phyllida turned on the desk lamp, then straightened the carved mahogany tray where the fountain pen rested when it wasn’t protruding from a dead man’s artery. She also realigned the small vase always kept filled with flowers or greens (removing the single drooping leaf and tucking it into her dress pocket) and tsked when she noticed a dull streak at the edge of the desk’s glossy surface. The scissors and the stack of stationery on the desk were untouched, as was the small agate paperweight.

At last, her call was connected, and even then, what should have been a simple task became tedious.

“Yes, Constable. It is in fact a real dead body.” It was the third time she’d been required to give this information, and the reason for the repetition was not due to the crackling of the telephone line. “My name is Mrs. Bright. I’m Mrs. Mallowan’s housekeeper here at Mallowan Hall.”

“Mallowan Hall? D’ye mean the place where that detective book lady lives at?”

Phyllida gritted her teeth. “Yes, Constable.”

“Yer sayin’ there’s a dead body in the library at Agatha Christie’s house?”

“I am in fact saying precisely that, Constable. And I expect you’ll attend to this posthaste. Mr. and Mrs. Mallowan have a houseful of guests.” She wasn’t certain he heard her over his guffaws of laughter.

“It’s a good jest, it is, ma’am,” he managed to say between hearty chuckles. “A dead body there at—”

“Constable Greensticks,” she said in her most severe tone, “this is no laughing matter. A man has been murdered, and I suggest you attend to the matter immediately.”

At last, she hung up the telephone, assured that the constable fully understood the gravity of the situation, while being well aware that the operator who’d connected them was probably beginning to make her own telephone calls to carry the news.

Her attention fell on poor Mr. Waring—she was confident but not entirely certain that was his name; after all, his arrival last evening had not been anticipated, and he had most certainly not been on the guest list. That was only one of many problems with unexpected guests.

Phyllida was tempted to lay a blanket over the poor man but decided she’d best not disrupt the scene. Mr. Waring was young, in his late twenties, with light brown hair and a matching mustache. His attire was stylish—the premade trousers being the sort bought at a department store instead of having been tailored, but fine nonetheless. He wore a coat of excellent wool and fine cut that was only two years out of style. It was clean and, she noted with satisfaction, possessed a fully intact hem. In Phyllida’s opinion, a sagging hemline was the first indication of a lack of attention to detail and appearance and was usually borne out in other ways.

Phyllida glanced at the clock and saw that it was just seven. Mrs. Agatha wouldn’t normally be up for at least two hours, and even then, she would go into her office to write for a time before joining her husband and their guests. Phyllida was also reminded to schedule the men to come and oil the clocks next week, after the house guests had gone. It would be two weeks early, but she’d noticed the grandfather clock at the bottom of the main staircase was grinding a bit.

The more pressing task was to inform Mr. Dobble of the situation, and the very thought was enough to have her wishing for another very strong cup of Darjeeling.

One usually needed some type of fortification before interacting with the Mallowans’ butler, and since it was hardly past seven in the morning, she would have to forgo the rye whisky.

Unwilling to leave the library unattended, Phyllida rang for Mr. Dobble. Admittedly, the idea of calling the butler to her rather than going to him, as one would normally do, made her smile.

Not that that was unusual. Phyllida, for all her exacting standards and regimental mind, was possessed of an optimistic, pragmatic, and sunny personality. Although she was most often required to act in a reserved manner as the individual who managed the majority of the household staff (not to mention its budget), she had been known to play whist with the parlourmaids, assist with fashion opinions for the maids during their days off, and give relationship advice to a chambermaid related to the former chauffeur. (He’d been a poor prospect due to his wandering eye—and hands.) And more than one of the kitchen maids had seen the very correct housekeeper go soft and gooey-eyed over a litter of fuzzy kittens.

Two of said kittens had subsequently found their way into a basket in Phyllida’s sitting room, joining her collection of detective novels and books on nearly every topic under the sun, and were now full-grown, sleek cats who disdained the basket that had once been their bed. However, Stilton and Rye helped keep at bay any mice who might confuse the larder for their homestead. Holding one or the other in her lap—when the felines permitted, of course—also provided Phyllida moments of calm and restoration. Which was particularly appreciated after dealing with Mr. Dobble.

Phyllida had not come up working in domestic service, starting as a scullery maid or chambermaid when she was thirteen or fourteen and making her way to kitchen maid or parlourmaid and then through the hierarchy from there. That made her quite unusual. In fact, she hadn’t worked in service at all until several years after the Great War and her work with the army had ended.

The reasons she’d chosen employment as the housekeeper of a large manor were excellent and no one’s business but her own. That was part of why she and Mr. Dobble weren’t particularly friendly. She suspected he was suspicious of a woman who had come into the coveted position of housekeeper without a long history of scrubbing floors (as far as he knew), and who was comparatively young (although certainly not that young and most definitely not inexperienced) to have such a prestigious role in a large gentrified household. And despite his best efforts, she did not deign to share with him the details of her background, marital status, or age, even when pressed.

But Phyllida was certain most of Mr. Dobble’s dislike was due to the fact that she lived up to her name—not only in personality, but with her hair color. It was bright. Bright strawberry gold.

The first time she’d met him, the butler had eyed her up and down and suggested that she “subdue that fire upon your head.”

She had refrained from suggesting that he remove the walking stick that appeared to have been inserted into his bottom, and had commenced with ensuring that whenever she was in Mr. Dobble’s presence, her fiery hair was smooth, neat, and not the least bit subdued. Fortunately, housekeepers didn’t wear caps, and so her uncovered head always shone like a beacon.

She’d just finished opening the curtains to allow the light to shine in when the library door opened.

Mr. Dobble stepped in silently, as the most excellent of servants did. He was approximately fifty years old (he was just as vague about his age as she was), with a clean-shaven face and an equally hairless scalp with a pronounced dent above his left ear (a characteristic that led some of the staff to call him Old Dent when safely out of his hearing). Everything about the butler was long—his ears, his fingers, his torso, the hair of his gray eyebrows—with the exception of his legs, which were, in relation to the rest of him, not long at all. It wasn’t that he was short; it was simply that his height came equally from torso and lower limbs. He had dark eyes and pale, pale skin that was so smooth Phyllida could only assume he indulged in a very fine facial cream.

As most butlers did, he dressed in clothing as fine as that of the gentry. However, because no one in the upper class ever wanted their servants to be mistaken for someone of their status, there was always in a butler’s attire some element that was “off”—a slightly out-of-date necktie, a too-old coat, a pair of trousers cut the wrong way. That minor anachronism assisted those of the upper class from assuming the butler was one of “theirs”—or vice versa, as when Lord Haldane had once been mistaken for being a butler by a chambermaid while traveling on a train.

Mr. Dobble took three steps into the library, his expression set and haughty and his eyes trained accusingly on Phyllida, his mouth open in what surely was about to be a crisp reprimand.

Then he saw Mr. Waring. Mr. Dobble stumbled to a halt with an inadvertent cry that strangled off whatever snappish comment he was about to make.

“As you can see, Mr. Dobble, we have a situation.”

“I shall contact the constabulary at once.” He’d recovered quickly, but Phyllida was delighted to note that he’d initially been far more discombobulated than she.

She hid a satisfied smile as she replied, “I’ve already spoken with Constable Greensticks. I expect he will arrive shortly, presumably with the doctor in attendance, so we have only a very short time to manage the staff and to inform Mr. Max and Mrs. Agatha.” As one does, she prudently waited for the butler to seize control of the situation.

“I shall inform Mr. Max,” he said. “And the footmen, of course. You’ll attend to your own staff, Mrs. Bright. I do hope you’ll be able to contain their squeals and shrieks. We do have guests, you know.”

She gave him a frosty smile. “I shall endeavor to ensure the maids’ histrionics are kept to a dull roar.”

He paused, standing over the body. “Good heavens. A fountain pen?”

“Indeed.” Phyllida moved closer. “Quite horrifying.”

“That’s the reporter, is it, then? To do the interview with Mrs. Agatha. Mr. Waring.”

“To my recollection.” Phyllida hadn’t answered the door to welcome the guests as Mr. Dobble had, but she had made certain she caught glimpses of each of the arrivals as they came in, and at dinner, as well, for it would be her staff that attended to their chambers and general needs.

She supposed, if one could find a silver lining in the cloud of a murdered guest, it was that it would be less upsetting to Mr. and Mrs. Mallowan since the dead man wasn’t known to them at all. Still. He obviously had been known to someone.

Mr. Dobble made a thoughtful noise. “Carbolic for the stains, I assume.”

“Only after a salted water soak.”

“And the wallpaper?”

“Milk and boiling water, of course. Lavender polish to finish.”

“I’ll have Stanley and Freddie remove the rug once the body . . . er, as soon as possible.”

“I would appreciate that, Mr. Dobble.” And so would Ginny, she thought dryly. Stanley, the head footman, was a particular favorite of the housemaids.

They looked down at the body, neither of them apparently willing to move.

Living in the house of a writer who penned popular detective novels meant that dead bodies were a constant source of discussion—including the finer points of the cleverest way to make them so. Poisoning and stabbing (but without so much blood) were particular favorites of Mrs. Agatha’s, and occasionally, there was strangulation, of course. But to have an actual murder take place here . . . to see an actual dead body sprawled on the floor, with a writing implement projecting from an artery . . .

The bloodstains on the rug indicated that Mr. Waring hadn’t died immediately and seemed to have crawled some distance, no doubt struggling to find help while bleeding profusely. Phyllida shivered, contemplating the horrifying last moments of the dead man’s life. It must have happened late at night, or surely someone would have heard the disturbance.

“Who could have done such a thing?” Mr. Dobble’s stiff demeanor slipped a bit as raw emotion crept into his voice.

“I cannot imagine,” she replied in a likewise less formal tone. “But it must have been someone here.”

The butler’s breathing hitched a little, and he said a word under his breath that Phyllida hadn’t heard since she was working with the troops. She was, however, inclined to agree with the sentiment.

All thoughts of carbolic acid, clock oiling, and managing the staff—tasks and thoughts she’d clung to as a shield against the reality—disintegrated as sensibility settled in.

There was a murderer here, at lovely, sedate Mallowan Hall.

MALLOWAN HALL WAS A MODEST MANOR HOUSE WITH FIFTEEN guest rooms, an office each for master and mistress, and an array of sitting rooms and parlours. It was tucked in the rolling hills and lush forests of Devonshire, not far from Cornwall. Built at the turn of the century, it was surprisingly modern as country homes went, with running water, and indoor toilets, and electric lights in the kitchen, on the ground floor, and in all the bedchambers.

Phyllida wouldn’t have accepted a position as housekeeper, even for Mrs. Agatha, if the country house hadn’t had electric lights or hot running water. Constantly cleaning gas lamps—which gave off thick strings of soot that clung to the ceiling and walls—was a task she was disinclined to have her staff undertake in any household she managed.

Constructed of dark red brick and boasting seven chimneys, the four-story-plus-attic-and-cellar house presented an imposing front, with twenty windows and a grand front door that swept open into a well-lit three-story foyer featuring a large half-moon window. A curving drive split off to the recently renovated motorcar garage and was bordered by neat arborvitae hedges, spiral topiaries of boxwood, and massive pots of creeping ivy, sprawling red begonias, and springy pink gerberas.

Gracing the manor house and vehicle garage were terraces, more colorful gardens, a small apple orchard, riding trails, and, beyond, a dense forest. The near grounds were contained by a five-foot stone wall that rode up and down the gentle hillocks and even over the small creek at the north side of the property.

Mallowan Hall was a thirty-minute motorcar ride on the narrow, winding road from the village of Listleigh. The most popular local establishment therein was the Screaming Magpie—a public house known for dark, nutty ale and a testy publican. A post office, chemist’s, physician’s office, church, tea shop, and general store were also situated in the village, along with a number of other establishments such as a butcher, a cobbler, and a linen shop.

It was hardly a quarter of an hour after Phyllida had disconnected her call that Constable Greensticks roared up the drive in a motorcar. His enthusiastic navigation sent dust and gravel flying through the air, and when the vehicle skidded to a halt, it left deep marks in the drive. Phyllida was not surprised that the paint on the conveyance was scarred and scraped and that it boasted a small dent near the front passenger side.

A second vehicle rumbled up in the constable’s wake in a far more circumspect manner.

By now, the staff had heard the news. Phyllida had been firm with Ginny and Mary—the front-of-house maids who normally dealt with all “public” or common-area rooms on the main floor and who kept designing excuses to walk by the library—and had sent them to the music room in the other wing. Benita, the scullery maid, was seen whiting the steps on the side of the house closest to the front door, despite the fact she’d already done so at dawn this morning and should have been in the kitchen, washing eggs. And the gardener and footmen seemed to find a number of urgent reasons to walk by the front of the house.

The lady’s maid and the trio of valets who had accompanied their mistress and masters to Mallowan Hall had surely also heard the news, but they didn’t have any excuse to wander about and listen. They must wait impatiently for the gossip to make its way to the belowstairs dining room, where they were finishing breakfast—gossip that Phyllida knew wouldn’t take long in coming.

Mr. Max had been apprised of the situation by the butler, and he had, in turn, taken it upon himself to break the news to his wife upon her rising. The Mallowans would wait, Mr. Dobble told Phyllida, to inform their guests until they rose from what had been a relatively early night after a long day of travel. Mr. Max would speak with the constable and any other authorities in his study shortly. However, Phyllida decided she would take Mrs. Agatha her morning tea instead of having one of the chambermaids do so.

Mr. Dobble showed Constable Greensticks and the other gentleman, who carried what appeared to be a medical bag, to the library. Although the butler gave Phyllida a quelling look, she refused to budge from her position at the door to the chamber. Of course, the police would want to talk with her, as she’d been the one to discover the body. And aside from that, it was imperative she know what was happening if she were to maintain the smooth running of the household.

The constable had obviously managed to get his hilarity under control and was suitably sober as he greeted Phyllida. He was a short, pompous man with a full dark mustache who nonetheless did not remind her in the least of Hercule Poirot.

Phyllida considered herself an expert on Mrs. Agatha’s most famous fictional detective, and part (only part) of the reason she was currently unwed was that she had yet to find a man who met the standards set by the proper Belgian detective. Despite the fact that he was a figment of her mistress’s imagination, Phyllida had developed a sort of literary tendre for the clever little gentleman, his brilliant gray cells, and shared his appreciation for order and method.

Constable Greensticks might have characteristics similar to Mrs. Agatha’s detective, with his pompous airs, short stature, and full mustache, but he was more of an Inspector Japp than an M. Poirot—a view which was borne out by the fact that said mustache badly needed trimming and his coat hung rather poorly, flapping awkwardly about his knees. His notebook was crinkled and stained, and he wore a pencil tucked behind an ear.

Still, he represented the authorities in Listleigh and, despite his name, was neither slender nor green in his experience. “I’ve called Scotland Yard, and the inspector will arrive anon. In the meanwhile, I’ll examine the scene, take down some information, and assist the doctor here.”

Dr. Bhatt was a man of forty with reddish-brown skin and true black hair. His mustache, though unwaxed, was shiny, luxurious, and combed perfectly straight. Not one stray hair was too long, too short, or curled out of place. Such a display would surely have garnered a sincere compliment from M. Poirot had he been present. The physician had a prominent nose with a hump in the bridge, that being the single physical characteristic that put him just on the wrong side of handsome.

“Mrs. Bright. Mr. Dobble. I’m very sorry to be here under these circumstances.” His English was crisp, though the flavor of his homeland filtered through in a subtle accent. The doctor’s manner was efficient and yet easy, and he gave the impression that even the most trying of situations would be met with calm and fortitude.

The four of them went into the library together, the soft clink of Phyllida’s key ring the only sound, and the physician immediately knelt next to Mr. Waring.

Phyllida couldn’t help but edge close to watch, closing her hand over the keys to keep them from jingling. As a devourer of detective novels and a nurse’s aide who’d attended to terrible injuries, she was compelled by curiosity and uninhibited by the ugliness of death.

Dr. Bhatt didn’t seem to mind her hovering. His movements were smooth and efficient, and when he rose to his feet moments later, he met her eyes in a moment of solidarity. “Dead from a single puncture to the carotid. Bled out; likely couldn’t have been saved. Approximate time of death would have been between midnight and three in the morning. I see no reason for an inquest, as the cause of death is obvious, and I am confident in my conclusions.”

“A fountain pen as weapon,” said the constable, tsking as he shook his head and jotted notes on his crushed notebook. “Bloody ugly way to go.” He looked up. “When the inspector arrives, he’ll need to speak to everyone in the household. How many people are present?”

“There are seventeen staff—no, eighteen, with the new chauffeur, who arrived yesterday—in and outside the house, including the gardener, our man-of-all-work, and Mrs. Bright and myself,” said Mr. Dobble as Phyllida sighed inwardly. She’d expected nothing less, but it meant only more disruption if each of her maids and the cooking staff were to be pulled from their work to speak to the authorities. “Mr. and Mrs. Mallowan are also having a house party, and there are eight other guests present. Mr. Waring was a ninth. And there are an additional lady’s maid and three valets who accompanied the guests and are currently in the servants’ hall, waiting to be summoned.”

“Waring was a guest at this house party?” Constable Greensticks made a humming sound.

“In a manner of speaking,” replied Mr. Dobble. “He was here to interview Mrs. Agatha Mallowan. She is—as you likely know—a famous detective novelist.”

Dr. Bhatt stilled, and then his eyes widened. For the first time, his calm demeanor was disrupted. “Do you mean to say—no, no, it can’t be true, can it?—that Mrs. Mallowan is Agatha Christie?”

Mr. Dobble inclined his head in an affectedly bored affirmation, but Phyllida knew for a fact that he was just as proud of their employer as she was. He had his own extensive collection of Christie novels and stories.

“That is remarkable!” Dr. Bhatt beamed, then seemed to remember he was, after all, at a murder scene, and his smile faded. But he couldn’t resist adding the obvious: “I am a devoted fan of Mrs. Christie’s novels and in particular the stories of Mr. Quin.”

Whatever might have transpired next (possibly a discussion as to the origins of that mysterious literary character) was interrupted by a knock at the library door, which Mr. Dobble had prudently closed behind them. He went to it, and Phyllida noted that he managed to open the door only enough for a gentleman to step inside, but not wide enough for the gawping footman who’d delivered him to see within.

“Inspector.” The constable immediately greeted the newcomer, then set about introducing him to those present.

Detective-Inspector Cork did not, at first appearance, elicit great confidence in his skill at inves. . .