Murder by Invitation Only

Book 3: Phyllida Bright Mystery

by Colleen Cambridge

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Historical Mysteries; International Crime & Mystery

Synopsis

“A murder will occur tonight at Beecham House . . .” Who could resist such a compelling invitation? Of course, the murder in question purports to be a party game, and Phyllida looks forward to using some of the deductive skills she has acquired thanks to her employer, Mrs. Agatha, who is unable to attend in person.

The hosts, Mr. and Mrs. Wokesley, are new to the area, and Phyllida gladly offers their own overwhelmed housekeeper some guidance while events get underway. Family friends have been enlisted to play the suspects, and Mr. Wokesley excels in his role of dead body. Unfortunately, when the game's solution is about to be unveiled, the participants discover that life has imitated art. Mr. Wokesley really is dead!

In the absence of Inspector Cork, Phyllida takes temporary charge of the investigation, guiding the local constable through interviews with the Murder Game actors. At first, there seems no motive to want Mr. Wokesley dead . . . but then Phyllida begins to connect each of the suspects with the roles they played and the motives assigned to them. It soon becomes clear that everyone had a reason to murder their host—both in the game and in real life. Before long, Phyllida is embroiled in a fiendishly puzzling case, with a killer who refuses to play by the rules . . .

Release date: September 26, 2023

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

PHYLLIDA BRIGHT WAS DISPLEASED.

She leveled a stern look at the two young women who stood in front of her.

One of them was dripping wet from something that smelled exceedingly unpleasant.

The other was covered with soot and ash.

Both of them had the misfortune of being maids on her staff.

Neither were brave enough to look her in the eye, and in fact both seemed to be trembling in fear of her wrath.

As well they should, for the two of them were about to receive a severe talking-to . . . if Phyllida could keep from laughing. They did look ridiculous.

“Explain how this happened,” Phyllida said once she gathered her composure. “Ginny, you first.”

Ginny, the honey-haired parlormaid with a high-pitched voice, sniffled and pushed back a swath of hair that dripped in her face. Her normally pristine, starched uniform hung wet and awkwardly on her figure and her cap sagged over what had been a neat roll of hair.

“Only, I went out to empty the pail from the library fireplace and the next thing I know, she went and dumped a bucket of-of slop on me!” Her voice was teary but her eyes shot daggers at Molly, the kitchen maid who stood next to her.

“And therefore you found it necessary to retaliate by throwing a bucket of fireplace debris on her,” Phyllida said in an arctic voice.

“No, ma’am, but it was an acci—”

“I didn’t mean to, Mrs. Bright,” said Molly earnestly, though her voice was also tight with tears. “She got in my way as I was pitching it out.”

“I did not!” cried Ginny. “She pretended not to see me, but I know she did!”

“It was an accident, Mrs. Bright,” Molly said, her voice breaking with emotion. “I swear it!” She had obviously attempted to wipe some of the ashes from her face but she’d only made it worse, as her cheeks and slender nose were smeared with soot. Her lace cap, still settled on a head of light brown hair, had created a sort of nest for a significant portion of the ash as well.

One good sneeze or bob of her head—or, heaven forbid, a curtsy—and more fireplace remains would be strewn all over. In fact, there was a trail of ash, not to mention dripping water, that had followed the two maids into Phyllida’s sitting room—where they had no doubt been directed by Mr. Dobble.

Sent purposely, she was quite certain, for the butler at stately Mallowan Hall—home of Agatha Christie and her husband, Max Mallowan—loathed chintz and lace. Thus, Phyllida was under no illusion that it had been an “accident” that Mr. Dobble had sent the dirty, messy maids to her sitting room. Surely it was one of his not-so-subtle attempts to destroy—or at least damage—said chintz and lace.

And probably to disrupt Stilton and Rye, her cats, as well. Currently, Stilton was sitting gingerly on the back of Phyllida’s favorite armchair. Rye, as per usual, was sneering at everyone from his perch on the top of a bookshelf filled with detective novels and reference books on gardening, housekeeping, fashion, and a myriad of other interesting subjects.

Molly went on, “Truly it was an accident, Mrs. Bright. And then she—”

“It was not an accident,” shrieked Ginny, tears streaming from her eyes. “She did it on purpose! It’s all because of—”

“I did not!” cried Molly, whipping her head around to glare at the other girl . . . and there it went: Her cap tipped sharply and released its fistful of ash. The soot flew everywhere.

Phyllida stepped back as the messy gray detritus scattered through the air . . . with a good portion of it drifting onto the floor, into the puddle of water dripping from Ginny.

“Out,” Phyllida said, clenching her teeth to keep from laughing. What a kerfuffle! “Clean yourselves up immediately and then you will both return and put this room and the hallway to rights. You will not speak to anyone else, you will not dawdle, and you will return within ten minutes, starched and pressed and ready.” She looked pointedly at the watch pinned to the starched white collar of her pale pink frock.

Ginny and Molly fled, unfortunately leaving more dripping and wafting in their respective wakes.

Phyllida looked at the mess in her normally cheery and pristine sitting room with its pink and yellow accents. There was ash everywhere, the place smelled from whatever liquid refuse had been in Molly’s bucket, and now the water and the soot were making a lovely soupçon of sludge on the rug in front of her desk. She sighed, the last vestiges of humor evaporating.

She was going to murder Mr. Dobble. And from her time working in the home of Agatha Christie, along with being the detective writer’s friend and confidante, Phyllida had many ideas of how to go about doing just that . . . creatively and painfully.

In fact, she could no doubt construct the perfect crime, should it come to that. Even her beloved Hercule Poirot, the finest of Agatha’s detectives, wouldn’t be able to solve a murder committed by Phyllida Bright.

But instead of giving in to her base urge to hunt down the butler and stab the man with a letter opener or strangle him with an apron string (poison was simply too benign an option in this situation), Phyllida once more collected herself. She was assisted in this tenuous battle for self-control by Stilton, the fluffy white cat with the grayish-blue streaks that had given her her name. Phyllida gathered the feline into her arms and buried her face in the soft fur for a moment.

It had been a very trying day. And it was only three o’clock. Thank heavens the new vacuum machine hadn’t arrived yet, or the household would be in even more of a tizzy.

“Yes,” she murmured into the cat’s neck, “I am very well aware that he did it on purpose.”

Normally, Phyllida and Mr. Dobble got on well enough. They both had the same goal: running Mallowan Hall in such a way that made Mrs. Agatha and Mr. Max comfortable, pleased, and proud. Mr. Dobble was responsible for the footmen and the outdoor staff—the chauffeur, the gardener, and the man-of-all-work—and Phyllida’s domain was the house, including the maids and kitchen. Normally, they managed their respective tasks without conflict.

But every so often, she and the butler did not see eye to eye. Only this morning the two of them had had a bit of a set-to regarding whether the massive walnut grandfather clock should be moved in order to wash the wallpaper behind it.

Phyllida insisted it be moved. How on earth could one expect to clean the area well enough without getting behind it or under it?

But Mr. Dobble, who was usually as exacting as she was about thoroughness, did not see fit to allow his footmen, Stanley and Freddie, to take the time to move the monstrosity.

Phyllida and the butler had had quite a seething discussion about it—fortunately, in the privacy of his pantry—and then, in a rather sharp about-face, Mr. Dobble threw up his hands. He suggested that the clock not only be moved, but be completely removed from its location and either sold or destroyed with an axe he offered to provide . . . a solution which was not only ridiculous and uncharacteristic, but supremely unhelpful.

At that point, Phyllida had prudently removed herself from the butler’s pantry in favor of a bracing cup of Earl Grey. It was either that or raise her voice, something she rarely allowed herself to do . . . even when messy, dripping maids invaded her sitting room on the orders of Harvey Dobble.

Instead, she’d sipped said tea—which, sadly, was devoid of the rye whisky she favored—then rang for Elton.

Elton was Mr. Max’s valet, but he was rarely kept very busy in that role, and instead was more often conscripted to assist with other household activities. In fact, Mr. Max and Mrs. Agatha were in London at the moment, and Elton had been left behind simply because his master hadn’t seen the need for him to accompany them. This was not a surprise, as Mr. Max was an archaeologist and quite used to doing for himself when on digs. The only reason Elton had joined the staff at Mallowan Hall was that Phyllida had recently proven him innocent of murder, whilst at the same time angering his previous boss, who sacked Elton in a fit of pique. Mr. Max had been kind enough to take him on, although Phyllida had thought more than once that a valet was superfluous for her employer.

Elton was more than happy to help move the grandfather clock, he told Phyllida eagerly when he arrived for her summons.

And that, she realized belatedly, was where she’d gone wrong.

If she’d just kept Elton out of the entire situation, neither Ginny nor Molly would have encountered him today . . . and then the two maids wouldn’t have had their “accidental” mishaps. Phyllida was under no misapprehension about the cause of the incidents being simple clumsiness or inattention.

All of the maids had been mooning over the handsome and gentlemanly Elton and attempting to get his attention since he’d joined the household. And poor Stanley, the footman who’d been usurped from his throne as a favorite of the maids, now mooned about with a bewildered expression on his face. Fortunately, the two young men hadn’t descended into the sort of feuding demonstrated by the maids—at least not yet.

Love—especially young love, and even more especially young infatuation—was one of the inevitable consequences in a household of younger staff members.

Phyllida released Stilton onto the cozy gold chair and its yellow and spring-green chintz pillow—which was untouched by the soot and slop, despite Dobble’s attempts to the contrary. She could barely remember being that young and infatuated with a male person—and even when she had been, she would never have stooped to pouring slop or soot on a perceived rival.

She would have been much more subtle about it.

A trickle of long-tucked-away memories prompted a smile as she skirted the puddle of sludge that was seeping into the rug. Oh, she definitely would have been more subtle than tossing a bucket of ashes on someone.

As she came out of her small suite of rooms, Phyllida discerned the hurried footsteps pounding down the back stairs from the attic, where the maids had their rooms and wash basins. The green baize door, which separated the servants’ passageways from the “public” area of the house, swung open and Molly and Ginny burst through.

Even as they did so, Phyllida saw Molly’s elbow jam into Ginny’s side, and Ginny’s knee ram into the back of Molly’s leg, sending the latter stumbling. Molly caught herself, and, with fire in her eyes, rushed to catch up with the other maid.

But what could have been a continued tussle ended as soon as Molly saw Phyllida. Her eyes went wide and she skidded to a halt, shoulders straight and hands coming to her middle. Ginny was nearly as quick at changing direction and intention, and thus Phyllida was faced with two panting but neatly dressed and coiffed young women.

After a good, long, pregnant silence—during which he suppressed an exasperated smile—she spoke. “I am disappointed in both of you, being senior maids and setting an example for the others. And over a man.

“Oh, don’t think I don’t know what precipitated your mishaps this afternoon,” she went on when Ginny opened her mouth to protest. “Believe me when I say, men are simply not worth wasting such energy. Now, clean up the mess you have made.”

With that, she turned neatly and walked away.

It was time to deal with Mr. Dobble.

But before Phyllida could make her way to the butler—who would likely be hiding out in his pantry, chortling over his master plan of destroying all occurrences of chintz and lace in the house—she was hailed by the first footman.

“Mrs. Bright,” said Stanley, hurrying up to her. He was a good-looking lad, but before Elton’s appearance on the scene, he’d taken serious advantage of that fact by flirting outrageously with the maids. Now, he’d become more subdued and, if Phyllida read things correctly, the footman was nursing a bruised heart due to Ginny’s conspicuous interest in Elton. “This just came.”

“Is it from the vacuum company?” she said, but then noticed the thick, expensive envelope. It was certainly not from Vac-Tric, which had been supposed to deliver a brand-new vacuum machine from London today.

“I don’t think so, ma’am,” Stanley said. “But I did hear from Mr. Wheatley that there’s a bridge out between here and London, and it’s stopped a lot of traffic. They think it might be another day before it’s fixed up.”

“I see. That likely explains the delay, then.”

Stanley cleared his throat and shifted from one foot to the other.

Phyllida looked at him. “Is there something else, Stanley?”

“Erm . . . yes, ma’am. I-I just wanted to say that I would have been happy to help move the grandfather clock, ma’am. It’s only, Mr. Dobble, he set me to polishing the tea- and coffee pots again.”

“Of course, Stanley. I’m certain Mr. Dobble had his reasons.” Which, of course, were to torment her.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said, then gave a little bow.

Nodding, Phyllida turned her attention to the thick, creamy envelope. She noted with surprise that there was no addressee on the exterior, only the words Mallowan Hall. A blue wax blob sealed it closed, but there was no discernible coat of arms or signet on the impression.

“How strange,” she said, then called after the footman. “Stanley, who delivered it? Did they give an indication for whom it was intended?”

“No, ma’am,” he replied, turning back. “They just brought it and went off before I could ask. They was on a bicycle.”

“Very well,” replied Phyllida. She examined the envelope more closely but found nothing that might give a clue as to who the message was from or to.

The problem of Mr. Dobble set aside for the moment, Phyllida dismissed Stanley and decided she could certainly justify opening the envelope. After all, when one delivers an unaddressed envelope, one ought to expect anyone to open it. If it was for Mrs. Agatha or Mr. Max she could ring them up in London and tell them about it.

There was a single card inside and it appeared to be an invitation. Phyllida’s eyes widened when she read the words typed on it:

HOW EXTRAORDINARY, THOUGHT PHYLLIDA, REREADING THE strange invitation. She was immediately intrigued while also being horrified.

Was this some sort of game?

A warning?

Was this a clumsy—albeit creative—attempt by a journalist or other detective writer to gain Mrs. Agatha’s attention?

Or was it a threat? And if so, who was being threatened?

And more importantly, for whom at Mallowan Hall was the invitation intended? Anyone in particular, or everyone?

Considering the fact that there’d been a number of murders in the last several months at Mallowan Hall and in the neighboring village, she could only hope that it was a game or a joke of some kind. And although Phyllida was a fanatic about detective novels, she also was acutely sensitive that murder and, indeed, any sort of death, was not a laughing matter or a topic of jokery.

Still thoughtful, she walked down the corridor to the telephone, and moments later, was placing a call to Mrs. Agatha and Mr. Max’s London home. It was getting on to teatime, so presumably they would be in residence.

“Why, hello, Phyllida!” Agatha’s cheery voice came over the line. “Is everything fine out there in Devonshire?”

Phyllida assured her friend and employer that everything was well in hand at Mallowan Hall, disheveled maids and their mishaps notwithstanding. Then she went on to tell Agatha about the anonymous invitation that had arrived.

“An announcement of a murder?” exclaimed Agatha. “Why, that’s quite extraordinary, isn’t it?”

As Phyllida had had exactly the same thought, she made concurring noises. “I can’t quite determine whether it’s a jest or some sort of game . . . or something more sinister.”

“You’re going to attend, of course,” Agatha said, as if the matter was completely settled. When Phyllida began to protest, she overrode her firmly. “Well someone ought to go, and as Max and I are in London and, as you know, I am not at all interested in real-life murders—which, one certainly hopes there won’t actually be one, but one never can tell in this day and age—you are arguably the most qualified person to attend a murder.” She gave a short laugh. “After all, you’re beginning to rival my snobby little Poirot when it comes to solving killings, aren’t you?”

Since no one was about to notice, Phyllida couldn’t help but preen just a little at the compliment. Being favorably compared to Hercule Poirot was the greatest of compliments.

Agatha’s voice had changed to something more thoughtful as she mused further. “The announcement of a murder . . . how exceedingly intriguing, in a ghastly sort of way.”

“One can hope it’s not a real murder,” Phyllida reminded her.

“Perhaps it’s going to be one of those murder games,” Agatha said. “Where everyone sits around the table and one person is the killer and he or she winks at people to ‘kill’ them, and one has to try and determine who the killer is.”

“One can only hope that is the explanation,” Phyllida replied, but she realized from her employer’s distant tone that Agatha was no longer thinking only about the issue at hand.

“Imagine that. A murder being portended—or announced!—ahead of time . . . A murder is announced . . . why, that would be quite an intriguing title for a book, wouldn’t it? Good heavens! Why didn’t I think of it before?” Although the telephone line was scratchy, Phyllida could hear the sounds of Agatha scrabbling about for one of her ever-present notebooks. Despite the situation, she couldn’t suppress a smile. Her employer found inspiration for her detective novels all over the place and from many day-to-day conversations.

“It would certainly attract attention—a title such as that,” Phyllida said. She knew better than to interrupt Agatha when she was in the process of making notes.

“Yes, yes, I need to jot this down so I don’t forget . . . a murder is announced ahead of time. Perhaps one could even take out a classified advertisement,” she murmured. “That would cause quite the stir, wouldn’t it? Especially if it were in a small village where everyone gets the paper.”

“I should say,” Phyllida agreed. She waited a few moments as Agatha made her notes.

“Very well. Yes. That’s quite good. Quite intriguing,” Agatha said, still sounding a bit distant. Then she seemed to gather herself. “Now, where were we? Oh, yes, the murder. You ought to go, Phyllida. In fact, I insist you attend. Only to find out what it’s all about.”

“The announcement gives the location as Beecham House,” Phyllida said, relieved to have her friend’s full attention once more. “Do you know the people there?”

“Beecham House . . . why, they’re new, aren’t they? They’ve just rented the place if I recall correctly. Can’t summon the name . . . drat it, I’ve got too many suspects’ names in my head already, and Max is out so I can’t ask him. But surely you can find out more about them. I know how all the downstairs folk talk between houses,” Agatha said with a chuckle. “One can only suppose your maids have spoken to their maids and have all of the gossip already.”

Phyllida was inclined to agree. She would certainly be speaking to her staff shortly to find out what they knew about the new residents of Beecham House. “You and Mr. Max haven’t met the people, then?”

“No, no, I don’t believe so . . .” Agatha’s voice trailed off. “Do you think they meant to invite us as a way of getting to know me?”

Agatha was the most famous person in the neighboring village of Listleigh and its environs. She was also extremely protective of her privacy, especially since her infamous eleven-day disappearance during the difficult separation from her first husband, Archie. Since then, she’d shied away from publicity and only did limited interviews with the press—a position Phyllida most certainly understood.

When one had mysterious or questionable events in one’s past, one tended to seek anonymity . . . perhaps even by moving to the country and taking on a service job.

“I thought I would ring up some of the other houses nearby to see if they received a similar message,” Phyllida replied, and wondered briefly if that was why Mr. Dobble was in such a fine fettle. Perhaps Mr. Billdop had elected to attend the murder instead of playing their weekly chess game. But she immediately dismissed that as unlikely. The regular chess game was as ensconced in his weekly schedule as Christmas on the twenty-fifth of December.

“Excellent plan. One hopes the announcement wasn’t limited to the Mallowan household,” Agatha said dryly.

“I should hope not,” Phyllida replied. “I can’t imagine what they will think when I arrive instead of the infamous Agatha Christie.”

“Oh, it should be quite entertaining,” Agatha said with a laugh. “I only wish I could be there. You will ring me tomorrow and tell me all about it, won’t you?”

“Certainly,” Phyllida replied. And it was at that moment that she realized she had less than three hours before she had to leave for the “murder,” and there were a number of tasks she must accomplish before then.

So much for a quiet evening in her sitting room with a detective novel and her cats.

“You’re going to a what?” Mr. Dobble said. He drew his tall, slender self up into an even more ramrod-straight figure. The shallow dent in the hairless scalp above his left ear seemed even more pronounced today. “Why, that’s preposterous, Mrs. Bright. Surely you don’t think—”

“Perhaps you would prefer to attend the gathering in my stead?” said Phyllida in an exceedingly sweet voice. “Oh, but I’d nearly forgotten . . . tonight is your chess night with the vicar. You’re obviously otherwise engaged.”

The look Mr. Dobble gave her was a cross between silently deadly and pained. “I will not be visiting with the vicar tonight,” he said stiffly.

Phyllida managed to hide her surprise. There was obviously something amiss.

Nonetheless, she didn’t reply to this pronouncement, but instead tucked the bit of information away in her mind. Perhaps that was the explanation for Mr. Dobble’s unusually erratic and preposterous behavior earlier.

“At any rate, Mrs. Agatha requested I attend the—er—event at Beecham House,” she went on. “Apparently they are new. Have you heard any information about them?”

Mr. Dobble seemed relieved by the change of subject. “Jeremy Trifle has been the butler there for many years. I understand the new people are merely leasing the place and have brought in some other staff.”

“Do you have their names or any other information about the household?” Phyllida asked.

“I believe the name is Wokesley,” replied Dobble, then his brows drew together in thought. “And perhaps he is some sort of theatrical person. Yes, I do believe that is what Mr. Trifle said. A theatrical sort of bloke . . . but something about sheep, too, if I’m remembering.”

Theatrical? Well, that went along with the dramatic murder announcement. She couldn’t figure the sheep element, however.

“Perhaps you could ring him to find out whether others were invited or whether it was only Mrs. Agatha and Mr. Max,” she said, knowing full well that the invoking of their employers’ names would deflate any argument he might wish to make. “Mrs. Agatha fears it is merely a way for them to meet her.”

“I suppose I could do so,” replied Mr. Dobble ungraciously.

“That will be most helpful. I will be leaving at six in order to arrive in plenty of time. I will of course require the motor,” Phyllida informed him.

“Of course you will,” he replied, his lips pursing as if he tasted something sour. “There is a bicycle available, Mrs. Bright. You might avail yourself of that mode of transport.”

“Definitely not.” Phyllida stood from where she’d brazenly taken an uninvited seat across from the desk.

“And what about that vacuum machine?” He looked down his nose at her.

Mr. Dobble was not at all in favor of any sort of device that might make the staff’s tasks easier or more efficient. Perhaps that was why he’d been so determined to stymie her with the grandfather clock: His nose was out of joint over the excitement and trepidation of the vacuum machine’s arrival. It was all the. . .