Murder by Moonrise

Book 3: Dr. Julia Lewis Mystery

by Patrice McDonough

Genres: Historical Fiction; Amateur Sleuth; Historical Mysteries

Synopsis

London’s first woman doctor and a skeptical Scotland Yard detective find their holidays sidelined by a murderer threatening the royal family in this historically rich, gritty mystery set in Victorian London.

1867: For commoners and nobility alike, the Isle of Wight is an ideal holiday destination. Queen Victoria and her family frequently spend time at Osborne House, their stunning coastal residence. For the next few days the island will also be home to Dr. Julia Lewis, who is traveling with her grandfather and her great-aunt. But despite the pleasant surroundings, Julia is beset by worries.

Julia and Inspector Richard Tennant grew close during their last investigation, but he abruptly left England on a dangerous chase. She has heard nothing from him in weeks; meanwhile her maid, Kate, is nervous about rising anti-Irish sentiment. Editorials call for harsh retaliation against those determined to rid Ireland of British rule.

When Julia is called to perform an autopsy on drowning victim Lizzie Dowling, a young, Irish-born servant at Osborne House and a favorite of Princess Louise, she discovers that the girl was pregnant. Was her death a suicide? The distraught princess is eager for answers, and as Julia digs deeper, a second tragedy points to murder and perhaps a political scandal. There are rumors of smugglers funneling weapons to Ireland—and assassins who would target the Queen herself.

Motives abound but time is in short supply—and every day brings deeper urgency and threats that neither riches nor royalty may withstand . . .

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

October 1867

Dr. Julia Lewis flinched as a spray of saltwater slapped her face.

She braced herself on the heaving deck as the steamer’s bow rose and fell, the ship plunging toward the Isle of Wight. At that moment, she’d happily exchange her lot for London’s clammy fogs, solid pavements, and a line of patients queuing at her clinic.

Kate Connelly’s right hand anchored her straw bonnet. She took Julia’s arm with her left. “Come away from the rail, Doctor Julie,” her maid said. “You’re looking all green, you are.”

Julia shook her head and tightened her grip. “I’ll disgrace myself on the deck if I look away.”

“’Tis mind over matter, they say.”

“More like my head over the rail in another minute.”

Julia dragged her eyes to where sea and sky met and tried to fix her gaze on the line. It wasn’t easy as the paddle-wheeled vessel pitched and churned. She was never a happy sailor. Julia’s trip across the Atlantic to medical school in America had been a voyage of prolonged torture. As for the steamer to the Isle of Wight, there were many days when the strait that separated the island from Britain’s south coast was in a placid mood. That afternoon, it kicked and scowled.

Things went from bad to worse when word spread among the ship’s passengers that their route had changed.

“Shoals, miss,” the first mate said. “They’ve formed across the approach to the landing at Cowes Harbor, so we’ll swing farther east.”

Julia groaned. “How much longer?”

“Nothing to speak of,” he said. “Quarter of an hour, maybe.”

The sightseers and seasoned sailors with iron stomachs didn’t seem to mind. They crowded the rails and craned their necks: the eastern route afforded a distant glimpse of Osborne House, the queen’s residence in East Cowes.

“The royal standard isn’t flying,” a passenger said, peering through field glasses. “Her Majesty must be away.”

Someone whistled. “Look at the size of that yacht at anchor. Belongs to the Prince of Wales. Wonder what Bertie’s doing at Osborne without the queen?”

A third man elbowed his friend and winked. “While the cat’s away.”

Twenty miserable minutes later, the steamship slipped into the protected waters of Cowes Harbor.

Kate said, “You’re looking less green already.”

Julia smiled wanly. “I may live after all.”

“’Tis just what the doctor ordered, if you don’t mind me saying. New sights and fresh air to breathe.”

“You and I could do with both. Speaking of sights …” Julia peered over the rail, scanning the crowd on the quay. “I don’t see—”

“There they are. Over to the left.” Kate streamed her handkerchief. “’Tis Doctor Lewis and your great-aunt, waiting by a four-wheeler.”

Julia’s grandfather lifted his hat and waved it, his snowy hair catching the early afternoon sunlight. Then he pointed them out to his sister, Lady Aldridge.

Kate left Julia with her doctor’s case and carpetbag and searched for a porter to carry the rest of their luggage. A half hour later, they rolled up to the white, ivy-covered hotel only steps from the seawall. Julia climbed down from the carriage and looked up at the castle-like façade of the Marine Hotel.

“Grandfather, you’ve booked us into a palace by the sea.”

Dr. Lewis took Julia’s arm. “Fit for a future king. Fit for my granddaughter. I’m told the Prince of Wales is a regular guest during the yachting season.”

“How grand.”

“A party of young men in his set is staying here now,” Aunt Caroline said. “Laying up their boats for the winter. Or putting them down. I can’t remember which they said.”

“Odd that the prince takes rooms here,” Julia said. “Why not stay at Osborne House with the queen?”

“Oh, he stays at Osborne when Her Majesty is away.” Dr. Lewis chuckled. “Keeping out of his mother’s sight affords Prince Bertie, ah …”

“More scope for mischief,” his sister said.

“He’s there, now. Kate and I saw his yacht at anchor.” Julia turned her face to the light breeze. “You were right about the soft air and sunshine, Aunt. On land, at least.”

“The Isle of Wight is just the tonic you need, my dear. But first, a rest is in order.” Lady Aldridge handed Kate the room keys. “After that, join me downstairs for tea.”

“With pleasure.” Julia kissed her aunt on the cheek and followed Kate up the stairs. Six weeks away from London, and she’s longing for the news, Julia guessed. And she’ll want to hear about Richard.

Julia was Scotland Yard’s first female medical examiner and had worked two cases with Detective Inspector Richard Tennant. After a rocky start, their uneasy alliance evolved into a respectful partnership and friendship. And something more?

Lady Aldridge would ask about his hunt for the man who’d slipped the net on their last case. But nearly a month of silence followed Julia’s last letter. Aunt Caroline would want to know the state of the chase and her niece’s heart.

If only I had answers.

Lizzie Dowling sped down the path from Osborne House. Her lithe way of moving made her seem girlish, but when she smiled, fine, radial lines etched lightly from the corners of her green eyes. She wasn’t a child but a woman in her late twenties and lovely enough to turn heads.

The queen’s parlor maid had spent the morning of her half day changing sheets at Osborne House. Just before two o’clock, Lizzie passed through the gate, peering down York Street, afraid she’d missed the omnibus. She pined for the solace of her secret place. If the ’bus had gone, it would be another week until her next free afternoon.

Lizzie pulled a letter from her pocket and hesitated at the pillar box by Osborne’s gate. Her hand hovered at the slot. She hadn’t written to her younger sister since the summer. That was before it started up again. Lizzy sighed, thinking, Granny always said, let sleeping dogs lie.

But when the ’bus rounded the bend, Lizzie pushed the letter into the slot. She signaled the driver and climbed up, relieved to spot an empty seat in the crowded cabin. At least she’d avoid a windy, rocking ride aloft. As the road swung east around a curve, she watched the tall, square towers of the queen’s house vanish behind a stand of gray-barked ashes.

Lizzie settled in, tucking loose strands of auburn hair under her hat. She’ll help me. She’ll tell me what to do. The girl started to make the sign of the cross, then stopped herself, looking around at the other passengers, wondering if they’d noticed. She closed her eyes and said a silent prayer, Hail Mary, full of grace …

Warm weather lingered on the Isle of Wight, the trees showing just a trace of autumn yellow at their tops. The ’bus rumbled through green hedgerow alleys and rolled past golden fields. After a few miles, it rattled over the timbers of Wooten Creek Bridge, and her shoulder bumped the elderly rider beside her. The man smiled at her apology and looked back at his newspaper. As they passed the Old Mill Pond, its glassy surface turned gray, then blue, and gray again as clouds slid across the sun.

Nearly there.

The busman slowed and stopped just before Quarr Lane began its turn away from the sea. Lizzie hurried forward, one hand holding her bonnet in place, and handed the driver a sixpence.

“Don’t forget, lass. The last ’bus of the day returns at five.” He gave her a long look. “You take care in that lonely place.”

But Lizzie never felt alone there, and she wouldn’t be late. All the queen’s servants had watches to keep them on the household’s strict schedule, and she’d pinned hers underneath her shawl. Not that she needed a timepiece. As a child in Ireland, she had lived on a farm. In the days before … Lizzie closed her eyes. She wouldn’t think about that. But she knew the close of day by the churr-churring of the grasshopper warbler and cooling air that felt like a caress across her cheek. She’d be waiting for the ’bus long before moonrise.

’Tis a Hunter’s Moon tonight, she remembered. It would light her way on the dark walk across Osborne Park, the house towers glowing in the moonlight. Lizzie watched the omnibus disappear around the bend and stood for a moment in the sudden quiet. Then she pulled her skirts away from her boots and slipped through an opening in the hedgerow.

Across the road, a figure moved in the shadows of the trees.

Lady Aldridge and Julia sipped tea from the hotel’s flowery, red-and-yellow cups. An observer might have guessed they were relatives. They sat erect in their chairs, looking taller than most women even while sitting. Lady Aldridge’s hair was silver and Julia’s chestnut, but she and her great-niece shared the same high cheekbones, firm chins, and faces better described as handsome than pretty. The arch of their brows was identical, but not the eyes beneath. Julia’s were brown, and her aunt’s a cornflower blue.

“Well, my dear …” Lady Aldridge returned her saucer and cup to the table, leveling her gaze.

Julia, who knew her great-aunt well, thought, Tea, cucumber sandwiches, and interrogation.

“I’m not sure which surprises me more,” Lady Aldridge said. “That you absented yourself from the clinic for three whole weeks or that you traveled here like a lady, for once, in the company of your maid.”

“I thought you’d be pleased,” her niece said, smiling.

Julia had opened her clinic in Whitechapel five years earlier and was used to coming and going unchaperoned. But it was not merely the travel that worried her aunt. Lady Aldridge fretted about the long hours Julia devoted to the clinic. She thought her niece looked worn out on many evenings and told her so. Often.

“How are they managing at the clinic without you?”

“Doctor Barnes will come twice a week and every Saturday. Nurse Clemmie will send any patient needing more than routine care to the London Hospital.”

“High time you had a holiday. The sea air will soon put some color in those cheeks.”

“And Kate’s. She needed to get away.”

“Is she not well?”

“It’s Finsbury Circus that’s ill. The atmosphere in our neighborhood …”

“Atmosphere?”

Julia frowned, fiddling with her teaspoon. “It’s six weeks since you and Grandfather left London.”

“That’s hardly a lifetime. What has changed?”

“You’ve missed the vicious …” Julia pushed away her cup and saucer. “The guilty-by-association judgments from friends Kate has known for years. Fellow servants who work in the houses around Finsbury Circus.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The Manchester outrage in September, Aunt. You must have read about Sergeant Brett. The policeman who died in the raid. He was the cousin of a servant in Kate’s circle of friends.”

“But what has that to do with your maid?”

“The Irish Republican Brotherhood carried out the attack.”

“Ah … Kate Connolly.” Lady Aldridge nodded. “Old hatreds rekindle easily, I’m afraid.”

“They’ve flared up with a vengeance. It’s sickening.” Julia picked up a tea sandwich and then dropped it, pushing away her plate. “Kate, of all people. Is there a kinder soul?”

“I think we’ve had enough, yes?” Lady Aldridge folded her napkin. “Come, my dear. Let’s stroll along the Parade while the light still favors us. You can tell me about it.”

Julia linked arms with her aunt and crossed the street to the seawall. The sun was low in the sky, spangling the strait with flashes of silver. Most boats had called it a day, captains heading to the moorings and furling their sails.

Lady Aldridge sighed. “Poor Kate. That policeman’s death made the front page of The Isle of Wight Observer. Still, I’m not aware of any anger directed against the Irish here.”

“Maybe not, but I doubt this little island has absorbed a large influx from Ireland.”

“Well, not like London, to be sure.”

“Aunt, there are streets and back courts in Whitechapel where nearly every resident is Irish. They want to live in peace, but they’re tarred by the tiny minority who—”

“Resort to violence to break Britain’s hold on Ireland,” Aunt Caroline said. “Oh yes, I see.”

“And with Guy Fawkes Day around the corner …” Julia sighed.

“Oh dear. I hadn’t thought of that. In my younger days, the bonfires always ended with the Pope’s effigy alight. I thought that repulsive practice had died away.”

“Sergeant O’Malley says the police expect trouble in mixed neighborhoods of Irish Catholics and English Protestants.”

“And how is my old friend, the sergeant?”

“He’s well and asked to be remembered to you, although the sergeant isn’t happy with his new inspector.”

Lady Aldridge stopped. She planted the point of her ebony walking stick. With both hands gripping the knob, she turned to face her niece. “And what about his old inspector? What do you hear from Richard?”

Julia had expected the direct question; subtlety was as foreign to her great-aunt as Hindustani.

“Aunt Caroline, you’ve set a record,” Julia said, smiling. “Three hours in my company, and you’ve only just asked about him.”

“Then surely my restraint deserves to be rewarded with news.”

“You have been patient, Aunt,” she said, kissing her cheek. “I’ll give you that.”

“I warn you, my girl. I shan’t be satisfied with a kiss.”

“I never dreamed you would.”

“The time you’re taking to make up your mind about him …” Lady Aldridge shook her head. “Tortoises and glaciers are speedier.”

Julia hadn’t told Aunt Caroline that she’d nearly decided months ago. But Richard was gone when she looked for him at his country house in Kent.

Julia took her arm. “Let’s head back. I’ll tell you about Richard’s last letter at dinner.”

The letter was nearly a month old. I won’t mention that either, she thought. He’d written he was traveling to Antwerp in search of the man he hunted. Julia had delayed her departure for the clinic each morning, looking for his letter in the early post. In the evenings, she shuffled through the afternoon’s correspondence in vain. Disappointment had grown into dread and the fear that something was wrong.

Lizzie Dowling’s footfalls struck noiselessly on the springy path to Quarr Abbey. The bordering beeches had held on to their leaves, forming a dense, round canopy that blotted out the sun. When Lizzie rounded the bend, she startled a red squirrel that froze over a pile of nuts and then darted off in a russet streak.

The quiet pressed in on her until a sudden breeze carried the silvery sound of shivering leaves. Under the leafy vault, day seemed like dusk. Then she broke through the grove into the sunlight and stopped at the edge of a broad, green field. Quarr Abbey’s ruins stood at the meadow’s far end. Another stand of trees rose in the distance. Beyond was the shimmering sea, where boats with sails reefed in the steady wind tossed amid the swells.

Quarr Abbey—the Abbey of Our Lady—was nothing more than broken walls and scattered stones, remnants of religious troubles from an earlier age. Lizzie couldn’t say why she sensed a holy presence amid the wreckage. She felt it more strongly than at her parish church in Cowes. She circled the field and crossed to the shattered walls, running her hand across the velvety moss that clung in patches. Then the girl stooped, gathered three flat stones, and slipped them into her pocket.

Lizzie rarely saw others at the abbey and told no one about her visits. No one except him. She closed her eyes. Sweet Mary, Mother of God, forgive me, for there’s nothing I can deny him.

They’d said their goodbyes ten years earlier. Then they met again in the summer. It felt as if they’d never parted … at least for her. Then, one July day, he’d followed her to Quarr. He tracked her through the trees, across the field, and caught her in his arms in the sheltered glade by the holy well. Not here, she’d said on that still afternoon, summoning all her strength.

Lizzie’s footsteps scattered leaves along the path to the well. Water bubbled and murmured from a source deep underground. Someone had surrounded the spring with a stone wall and hacked a primitive bench out of the trunk of an ancient oak. Lizzie sat and fumbled in her pocket, extracting a single stone. She closed her eyes and rubbed her thumb in circles across its flat surface. She kissed it and then crossed herself, praying, Forgive us our trespasses, knowing it was wrong to harbor a sinful yearning, longing for something that couldn’t be. Tears soaked her lashes. She let them fall.

Lizzie sat longer than she intended. She stood in the fading light, looking for the pile of stones she’d left on her last visit. She spotted them, and her heart lifted. Sometimes, she’d find them knocked away, but they were there, a good sign, perhaps. Then she performed the ritual as her grandmother taught her. She fell to her knees, praying, “Hail holy Queen, Mother of mercy …” Lizzie moved three times around the well, stopping each time to repeat her prayer, adding a stone to the pile. For the final reverent act, she got to her feet and placed her left hand on the stone wall. She leaned forward, cupping her right to scoop water for the sign of the cross, looking down, reaching, never noticing the shadow that moved behind her.

Susan Styles pulled gently on the reins, and her pony cart rolled to a stop at Osborne House’s stables. The head groom pushed the double doors open and offered his hand to help her down from the driving platform.

“A pleasant drive, Lady Styles?” He signaled to a stable boy who led the trap away.

“Yes, thank you.” She tucked back strands of fair hair loosened by the breeze. “Am I the last to return?” Susan nodded to the pair of young groomsmen watering a horse and picking out its hooves.

“Not quite. Captain Montgomery is back.” He looked over her shoulder. “And here’s the major.”

Peter FitzGerald, equerry to Queen Victoria, dismounted, tossed the reins to a stable boy, and removed his hat, raking his dark, tangled hair. “Well met, Lady Styles, but I thought you’d been out driving with Princess Louise.”

“Her head ached, so I dropped her at the house.”

“Shall we walk there together?”

“Of course.”

Susan had been surprised to find Peter at Osborne House while Her Majesty was absent. But he had stayed behind to supervise the renovation of the queen’s stables, returning for a final inspection. For her part, Lady Styles had arrived at Osborne with the Prince and Princess of Wales. As Princess Alexandra’s “lady of the wardrobe,” Susan was her senior lady in waiting. Some in the royal household thought her twenty-nine years made her too young for the job. Mature duchesses usually held such posts. But the princess liked her, and the formal role had warmed into a friendship.

“Princess Alexandra tells me you are leaving us,” Susan said.

“Next week,” FitzGerald said, rolling his eyes. “For the delightful trip to Balmoral and back.”

Susan smiled in sympathy; few of the queen’s courtiers relished the five-hundred-mile journey to her castle in Scotland.

The head groom asked, “Any last instructions, Major?”

He frowned, stroking the scar that ran from his right ear to his chin. It was a Crimean War “souvenir,” he’d once told her, “courtesy of a Russian saber.” It hadn’t made him less attractive, and time had tamped its fire to dusty pink. Susan first traced its line years ago, her breath coming quicker.

“I spotted a decayed section of fencing in the north paddock,” FitzGerald told the head groom. “Get Merriweather and Sons to do the fence repairs.”

“Not Gibney’s? They built the original paddock.”

“The house steward thinks they’re padding the bills.” FitzGerald shrugged. “But Michael Bolger might be wrong, so the less said, the better.”

“I’ll see to it, Major.”

“Good man.” FitzGerald nodded to an empty stall. “I see the grooms haven’t stabled the prince’s mount.”

Susan, too, had noticed the vacant stall for the horse belonging to the Prince of Wales.

“Still out and about,” the groom said. “Fine afternoon for a gallop.”

FitzGerald looked at the darkening sky. “He shouldn’t leave it too late. Night falls earlier these days.”

“Hunter’s Moon tonight, Major. That will light his way.”

Three hours later, Susan fiddled with the brooch pinned to her bodice as she walked along the Grand Corridor of Osborne House, looking for a mirror. She found one and checked to see that the jewel was secure, sighing at her reflection. Susan had worn the black silk gown once too often. Widowhood had required an entirely new mourning wardrobe, followed by “half-mourning” dresses in mauves and grays. Both were expenses she could ill afford.

Susan turned left at the hallway’s end, passing the dining hall and surprising a pair of whispering, white-gloved servants setting the table.

“Her half day off, and Lizzie’s not back.”

“There’ll be hell to—”

The second footman broke off when he spotted Lady Styles. The pair bowed stiffly and returned to setting out the wineglasses.

After dinner, Dr. Lewis asked his granddaughter, “Shall we walk along the Parade, you and I? Your aunt isn’t overly fond of my pipe.”

“It’s bedtime for me at any rate,” Lady Aldridge said as she gathered her things.

Julia and her grandfather crossed the road and stopped at the harbor wall. The wind had shifted, and a light breeze from land to sea barely rippled the sea’s surface. Dr. Lewis cupped his hand around his pipe bowl. After three puffs, the tobacco took his match and glowed.

Julia hooked her arm around his and rested her head on his shoulder. “Thank you.”

He tossed the match over the seawall and looked down at her. “Thank you for what?”

“For persuading me to come. For three uninterrupted weeks with my grandfather.” She squeezed his arm. “I feel like a schoolgirl, books packed away, and taken on holiday.”

“Well, Aunt Caroline said I mustn’t take no for an answer.” He swept his pipe across the harbor view. “And I ordered up this perfect evening. Just for you.”

The full moon had painted a silvery highway, splitting the dark water from horizon to shore.

Julia said, “It’s one of those nights when you could walk the Parade without a lantern to guide you.”

“A Hunter’s Moon, my dear,” he said. “The second full moon of autumn.”

“Beautiful … but I’ve always found something menacing in the name.”

“The origin is American, I believe. The time to go hunting, when the birds and animals have stored up energy for the winter.”

“Fattened and ready for the kill.”

“And what about Richard’s hunt?” Dr. Lewis said, releasing her arm and turning toward her. “Four months scouring Europe, and the man eludes him still.”

Julia bent for a loose stone. She tossed it into the water and watched the spreading rings. “There was some … confusion over aliases that slowed the chase. It turns out his real name is Edgar Romilly.”

“My dear … is it time for the inspector to give up and come home?”

Julia lifted her shoulders. “I don’t know. He has two months left of his leave from Scotland Yard. I doubt he’ll return until it runs out or he tracks Romilly down.”

“Murderous scoundrel. Well, success or failure, Richard hunts for justice.” He reclaimed her arm, giving it a shake. “Now, what say you? Shall we go on a hunt of our own? I propose we wake with the birds, explore the eastern shore, and discover the island’s beauties.”

“Yes, please. So long as we travel by carriage, not by boat.”

At breakfast the following morning, Julia said warily, “A floating bridge, Grandfather?”

“I know you said, ‘not by boat,’ but it’s the only way across the river to East Cowes unless you travel ten miles downstream to Newport.”

“I’m not picturing—”

“It’s a steam barge. Horse-powered chains dragged an earlier vessel across the river. This one is large enough to carry carriages, carts, and passengers.”

“This modern world of ours,” Lady Aldridge said. “You two enjoy yourselves. I intend to stroll to the Green, read in the shade of the umbrella tree, and rest after luncheon.”

A hotel servant strapped a wicker basket with a picnic lunch to the back of their hired carriage. Fifteen minutes later, Julia and her grandfather joined the queue at the ferry dock.

“Here she comes, Julie.”

She looked east, shielding her eyes from the morning sun. The approaching barge belched steam from its squat funnel and juddered to a stop. Two long seating sheds ran the length of its sides with a center space for carriages and wagons. Julia and her grandfather boarded and made the short crossing. When they reached the other side, they resumed their carriage seats and rumbled down the exit gangway.

Their coachman turned right on. . .