Murder Takes the Stage

Book 4: Phyllida Bright Mystery

by Colleen Cambridge

Genres: Historical Mysteries; International Crime & Mystery

Synopsis

A witty and inventive treat for lovers of all things Christie, Downton Abbey, and Knives Out, set in London and the English countryside and starring Phyllida Bright, fictional housekeeper to the great dame of detective fiction herself. “Dame Agatha would be proud” (Publishers Weekly).

Housekeeper Phyllida Bright is quite in her element at Mallowan Hall, the charming English manor that she keeps in tip-top shape. By contrast, the bustling metropolis of London, where her famed employer Agatha Christie has temporarily relocated, leaves Phyllida a bit out of her depth. Not only must she grapple with a limited staff, but Phyllida also has to rein in a temperamental French cook who has the looks of Hercule Poirot, but none of the charm. 

When a man named Archibald Allston is found dead in an armchair onstage at the Adelphia Theater, first impressions are that he died of natural causes. But the very next day, the unlucky actor playing Benvolio at the Belmont Theater is found with his head bashed in. And when a third victim turns up, this time with double-C initials, the fatal pattern is impossible to ignore. 

With panic erupting among theater folk—a superstitious bunch at the best of times—Phyllida steps up to help with the investigation. The murderer’s M.O. may be easy to read, but can Phyllida uncover the killer’s identity before the final curtain falls on another victim?

Release date: October 22, 2024

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

PHYLLIDA BRIGHT’S FEELINGS ABOUT LONDON WERE EXCEEDINGLY complicated.

On the one hand, a person couldn’t deny that the city was exciting, energetic, eclectic, and enchanting (alliteration notwithstanding). One could buy anything, do anything, eat anything, and experience nearly anything one wished.

And Phyllida had done her share of all of that during previous residencies and visits. Her lips curved at the memory of a particular night at the Savoy.

Then the smile faded.

There were other not nearly so pleasant memories that accompanied her return to London, hence the mixed emotions with which she struggled. Phyllida didn’t care for having such mixed emotions. It was much easier when things were straightforward. When she knew how she ought to feel and react.

But there was no help for it. She was here in London, and, as was her nature, would make the best of it—all the while hoping to avoid disaster.

The ancient and yet shockingly modern city was a far cry from sleepy little Listleigh in Devon—although with the number of murders that had recently occurred in the small village where Phyllida managed the home of Agatha Christie and her husband Max Mallowan, Phyllida began to wonder if the village might, in fact, be in competition for London on a murder-by-square-foot basis.

It was a shame, to be honest, that the vibrancy of the city and all of its civilized offerings were overshadowed by the fact that Phyllida did not want to be here.

In fact, probably the only person in the world who could have convinced her to return to London was Agatha, with whom Phyllida had been close friends since they worked in a hospital together at the beginning of the Great War. Phyllida’s employment as housekeeper of Mallowan Hall suited both women perfectly, for a variety of excellent reasons.

But not only was Phyllida in London—against her better judgment—she was currently crammed in the front of a Daimler with a panting, pricked-ear, hot bundle of wildly curling canine fur squashed on the seat between her leg and the motorcar’s door.

She still wasn’t quite certain how Myrtle had managed maneuvering herself into such an ungainly position, the impertinent little beast.

“All right there, Mrs. Bright?” said Bradford, the Mallowans’ chauffeur and alleged master of Myrtle, the panting and—ugh!—drooling creature that had unconcernedly wedged itself next to Phyllida.

Phyllida’s only response was to give Bradford a withering look. He knew quite well how she felt about that mop of fur—despite the fact that she and Myrtle had begun to come to an uneasy and reluctant truce.

Uneasy and reluctant on Phyllida’s part, at least. Myrtle seemed delighted that she could insinuate herself into Phyllida’s proximity whenever the latter was otherwise distracted by events such as nearly being squashed by a motorcar, being shot at by a crazed killer during a thunderstorm, or taking advantage of her debilitated condition when nursing a head cold.

“Right, then, Myrts, we’re nearly there,” said Bradford cheerily. He was actually wearing a cap today—of an unobjectionable blue tweed—along with an equally suitable coat and leather driving gloves. “Then you won’t be so quashed up, now, will you? Can’t be comfortable riding like that, can it?”

Phyllida resisted the urge to make a tart comment, for Bradford would certainly be delighted by such a reaction from her.

But his easy, almost crooning voice had an unexpected benefit, for Myrtle spun toward her master (Phyllida had noted more than once that it was questionable as to who was the master or mistress of whom in that relationship) and bounded across Phyllida’s lap into that of Bradford’s. Although the beast left a smattering of hair in its wake and faint paw impressions on her skirt, it nonetheless removed its warm, panting, drooling self from her proximity, and for that, Phyllida couldn’t help but be appreciative.

“I’m not feeling very well, Mrs. Bright,” came a weak voice from the backseat. “All this stopping and starting and turning and the motor’s rumbling . . .”

Phyllida glanced at Bradford, then turned her attention to Molly, the head kitchen maid from Mallowan Hall, who was crammed in the rear with two other staff members from back home and two suitcases.

Fortunately none of the staff members in the rear were Mr. Dobble, the butler.

Unfortunately, Phyllida knew the butler had already arrived at the town house Agatha and Mr. Max were letting during this visit to London. Incidentally, contributing to her mixed feelings about returning to London were the unwanted presences of both Dobble and Myrtle. She had hoped to leave both of them back in Listleigh.

It was risky for Phyllida herself to turn to look toward the back of the motorcar, for she, too, occasionally suffered from what her beloved and gloriously mustachioed Hercule Poirot would have called mal de motor . . . sickness from riding in an automobile.

“We’re nearly there, Molly, but if you need Mr. Bradford to stop so you can get some air, please say so. I’m certain he’d rather have a delay than clean up a mess in the backseat.”

“Ohhh, Mrs. Bright, me too,” moaned Opal, the scullery maid who’d recently come to work at Mallowan Hall. “I ain’t never been in a motorcar this long before, mu—” The young girl stopped abruptly and swallowed hard. Her face appeared green from over the top of the battered suitcase in her lap.

That was not good. And they’d only been in the motor for the fifteen minutes it took to travel from the Paddington railway station to Mayfair.

“We’re turning onto the street now, ladies,” said Bradford calmly. Phyllida noticed he’d taken the turn slowly and carefully and was easing the motor along as smoothly as possible.

She breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Although sitting in the front seat normally kept her from becoming ill, there had been an awful lot of stops and starts due to traffic, and her own stomach had become quite aware of that, along with the incessant vibration of the vehicle. There had never been this much traffic in the city. And the construction! There were new buildings going up everywhere, and old ones being taken down, then replaced with more new ones. Phyllida had hardly recognized Fleet Street for all the changes.

Along with the construction was the even foggier, denser air than Phyllida remembered. Coal smoke poured from multiple chimneys on every block, motorcar exhaust streamed from tailpipes, and all of that was tucked down onto the streets by the thick fog that often shrouded London and had given the likes of Dickens, Stoker, and Conan Doyle the perfect setting for mysterious happenings.

“And here we are,” said Bradford, stopping the Daimler in front of a charming brick town house across from a small, circular park. Said park was one of the reasons that had been cited during the discussion over whether Myrtle would travel to London. Phyllida had argued that the beast would have nowhere to gambol about, as was its wont, but Agatha had cheerily pointed out the proximity of the park—and the fact that her own wirehaired terrier, Peter, would also be joining them.

Agatha and Phyllida had many things in common, but a love (or lack thereof) for canines was not one of them.

The vehicle had barely come to a halt when Molly and Opal were tumbling from the backseat, gulping for air that was only marginally fresher than inside the motor, being clogged with coal smoke and gasoline fumes as it was.

Before Phyllida had the chance to reach for her own door, Elton—the third staff member who’d traveled up on the train with them—was there, swinging it open with a flourish.

“Here we are, Mrs. Bright,” he said, offering a hand to help her climb out.

“Thank you, Elton.”

He blushed beneath his cap when her gloved hand touched his larger one.

She had never mentioned the occasion on which he’d forgotten himself in a moment of extreme emotion and inappropriately referred to her as “Phyllida,” and she doubted she ever would. However, she did nothing to encourage his harmless but sometimes inconvenient infatuation with her.

Still, there were benefits to having one of the male servants, who were all under the purview of Mr. Dobble, being particularly attentive to her disposition. There were occasions when Phyllida found it necessary to circumvent—gently and unobtrusively, of course—the butler’s idiosyncrasies.

Phyllida quickly and efficiently extricated her hand from Elton’s grip and, ignoring Bradford’s amused grin at her predicament, turned to appraise the home that would be her residence for the next several weeks.

Agatha and Mr. Max intended to purchase a residence in London, but they hadn’t yet done so. Instead, they’d leased this four-story redbrick townhome, known as Gantry House, in order to “try out” the neighborhood. They were in town and had brought part of their own staff while one of Agatha’s plays was in the early stages of being produced in the West End.

Phyllida wasn’t certain why it had been so important for her to come to London—Agatha had no need of her expertise when it came to dealing with the West End and all of its, quite literal, dramatics. And surely she could have hired a housekeeper from an agency in London—after all, Mr. Dobble would be there to guide and provide an excessive attention to detail.

But Phyllida supposed she’d been asked to come simply because Agatha preferred to have her own trustworthy staff around, particularly since she and Mr. Max might be doing occasional entertaining and because, like Phyllida, Agatha shied away from any publicity.

However, the town house on Matilda Street had no need of such an extensive staff as was in place at Mallowan Hall, so Phyllida and Mr. Dobble had been required to come to an agreement on which maids and footmen should come with.

Mrs. Puffley, the cook, had been left back in Listleigh to manage the skeleton staff, for the Mallowans had decided to engage a cook via the leasing agency whilst in London, and to keep on the single maid-of-all-work who was already at the house. Elton, who was officially Mr. Max’s valet but who hardly ever performed those specific duties, had been elected to come to London due to his versatility in service and familiarity with the city.

For obvious reasons, Phyllida preferred to hire her own staff, and she was mildly apprehensive about a cook who was known as Monsieur Chardonnay. With this in mind, and comfortable in the fact that Elton and Bradford would see to the luggage as well as to Molly and Opal’s welfare, Phyllida took herself around to the servants’ entrance at the rear of the town house, where, she knew, she would find the kitchen.

The sooner she met this Monsieur Chardonnay, the better.

The passageway between the Mallowans’ town house and its neighbor was hardly wide enough for a tow-cart to pass through without scraping the brick on either side. But in the back of the residence was a tiny, charming courtyard spilling with delphinium, daisies, dahlias, and more. A massive climbing rosebush burst with bloodred blooms, which cast a heady scent through the air. Phyllida noted with approval that a small, ornate iron table with two matching chairs was situated beneath a graceful willow—which had been trimmed up to provide a cozy shaded nook beneath its curtain-like fronds—and that the flagstone walkways were swept free of leaves, sticks, and dirt.

The heavy back door—which, for obvious reasons, Phyllida preferred to use—was open to the fresh (such as it was) air, and as she approached the threshold, she was assailed by the delicious scent of roasting meat.

Given this cause for optimism, Phyllida opened the light screen that kept out unwanted critters and stepped into the house. She found herself in a tiny entrance that branched off into a handkerchief-sized scullery with a stone basin to the right and a minuscule pantry to the left. Straight ahead was a short corridor that ended at the kitchen.

Phyllida paused at the threshold of the kitchen, unnoticed by a maid, who was sitting at the table peeling boiled eggs. The only other occupant of the room was the cook, who was standing with his back to the doorway as he vigorously stirred something on the stove.

Her first impression was of a small but well-appointed room with a worktable that doubled as a compact dining table for the staff. She stepped inside and the maid looked up, then quickly rose to her feet.

“Ma’am,” she said, giving a polite curtsy. Her voice was closer to that of a tenor than a soprano.

“Good morning,” said Phyllida. “I’m Mrs. Bright, and I am the housekeeper while Mr. and Mrs. Mallowan are in residence.”

The man turned from the stove and Phyllida nearly gasped aloud.

He was hardly any taller than she, with an egg-shaped head whose smoothly combed hair, which glistened slightly with pomade, had just begun to thin at the top. Beneath his immaculately white apron was a gently rounded stomach that, should he be viewed from the side, would give his figure the shape of a shallow half-moon. His eyes were sharp and hazel-green, with thick, dark brows above them. But those brows—which were neatly trimmed—were nothing compared to the luxurious mustache that sat, perfectly combed, trimmed, waxed, and groomed, above a pair of frowning lips.

It was Hercule Poirot.

Phyllida blinked, then collected herself.

Of course it wasn’t Hercule Poirot, but she had never seen a person who looked more like Agatha’s famed detective than the chef, who was currently glowering at her.

“What ees thees?” he snapped in a very un-Poirot-like way, but with a thick French accent. “Who do you say you are? Why are you in my kitchen?”

Phyllida pulled herself together (how mortifying to have been struck dumb at the man’s appearance, however momentary it had been) and said smoothly, “I am Mrs. Bright, the housekeeper. As you come extremely highly recommended”—that was an exaggeration, but she was not above using a bit of flattery to erase the sourness from his expression—“I am quite looking forward to working with you, Monsieur Chardonnay. Something smells delicious.” She smiled and waited for him to plunge into a description of whatever mouthwatering dish he was making.

Instead, he made an irritated sound that might even have been a French curse word and turned sharply back to the stove.

Had Phyllida been a lesser sort of woman, she might have flushed with embarrassment or anger at such a set-down by a lower staff member—and in front of an even lower staff member. Instead, she kept her expression blank and lifted a brow at the maid, who, surprisingly, had seemed unconcerned by such a rude display.

“And what is your name?” she said to the maid, who’d remained standing.

“Billie, ma’am. If it pleases you, I mean to say.”

Billie was the name Phyllida had been given for the maid-of-all-work, so that made perfect sense. And since neither she nor the Mallowans were in the habit of insisting the servants change their names in order to make it easier for them to remember, she nodded. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Billie.”

Phyllida automatically scanned the young woman’s appearance and found no fault. Billie’s coarse, dark hair had been scraped back into a bun at the nape of her neck and she wore a proper lace coronet cap over a uniform of steel gray covered by an apron. She had a slender, bony figure and delicate features that seemed at odds with her low-register voice. She was taller than Phyllida—who wasn’t all that tall herself—but it was notable, especially since her feet were as large as Elton’s. Phyllida couldn’t help but wonder if the poor girl tripped over them often.

“You will soon meet Molly and Opal, the kitchen maids I’ve brought with me from Mr. and Mrs. Mallowan’s home in Devon. They will assist Monsieur Chardonnay, whilst you will assist Ginny with the public rooms on the first floor and the bedrooms above. It will only be Mr. and Mrs. Mallowan to stay, so the other bedchambers can be kept closed up.” She watched the cook as she spoke, and noted the way his shoulders jerked, indicating that he’d heard—and was displeased.

That was too bad for him. He might resemble, at first glance, Hercule Poirot, but the cook certainly didn’t possess any of the Belgian detective’s civility. At least it appeared he could cook.

“Yes, ma’am,” replied Billie with another curtsy. “I’ve met Ginny. And Mr. Dobble, ma’am.”

Phyllida inclined her head. She had expected that, for Ginny and Dobble traveled from Devon earlier today via motorcar with Bradford (and Myrtle—which was why Phyllida had elected to take the train from Listleigh). The chauffeur had been back and forth from Paddington to pick up Agatha and Mr. Max, as well as Phyllida and the others.

Phyllida heard the sounds of the others from the motorcar approaching from the rear door. Ignoring Monsieur Chardonnay, she introduced the kitchen maids to Billie and asked her to show Molly and Opal to their quarters.

That left her alone in the kitchen with the cook. He had not turned from whatever he was doing at the stove, and Phyllida suspected that whatever it was, the task didn’t require the unflagging devotion he demonstrated.

“I would like to see the menus you have planned for the next two days, Monsieur Chardonnay,” she said briskly. “I’ll be in the housekeeper’s office in thirty minutes and will expect you to be prompt.” She kept her voice friendly, but with that subtle edge that would have made any of her staff members sit up and take notice. “Molly and Opal will be here to take over any tasks in your absence.”

She breezed from the kitchen without waiting for a response. A metallic clatter followed by a violent thunk echoed after her, and she stifled a smile.

Her working relationship with Monsieur Chardonnay was going to be quite stimulating.

Phyllida found Mr. Dobble in what passed for the butler’s pantry in this tall and slender home. It was hardly the size of a closet, with a desk crammed in so tightly she had to wonder how he’d managed even his stick figure to get around to the chair behind it.

“You’ve arrived,” was his greeting after her knock at the open door.

He sounded just as pleased to see her as she was to see him.

“Of course,” she said, giving him a once-over just as he was doing to her—likely searching for signs of travel-weariness such as a crumpled skirt, coal ash from the train’s chimney, or mussed hair. Of course, he would not find any, as Phyllida didn’t allow her clothing to crease or her newly cropped, curling hair to look mussed—even after removing her hat. She had, of course, checked herself in the mirror before approaching the pantry anyhow.

As for Mr. Dobble—he appeared as rigid and skeletal as usual. His nearly bald head with its subtle indentation over the left ear was otherwise smooth and dull pink, with the few nearly invisible hairs that persisted in growing there brushed neatly into place. Someplace over fifty years old, the butler was clean-shaven and wearing, as always, a well-cut but slightly out of date coat with a perfectly knotted cravat.

He had not been quite himself as of late, and she suspected it had to do with some sort of falling out with—or at least an upheaval in—his particular friendship with the vicar in Listleigh. What had once been a weekly chess game—sacrosanct and indelibly on the calendar, barring a national emergency—had failed to occur over the last several weeks.

That was part of the reason Phyllida had not argued as strongly as she could have for Mr. Dobble to be left back at Mallowan Hall. Perhaps he needed a change of scenery in order to spring back into his indomitably correct but at least reasonable persona.

There was also the tantalizing possibility that Mr. Dobble might decide he liked London enough to remain in the city.

“How have you found the staff here?” Phyllida asked. “Monsieur Chardonnay in particular.”

“Monsieur Chardonnay?” Mr. Dobble was not in the habit of inanely repeating things, and that caused Phyllida to look at him a little more closely.

“Yes, the cook. Monsieur Chardonnay. If that is his real name, which I highly doubt. Even Mrs. Agatha would never give one of her characters such a fanciful name.” And that was saying something, for Agatha Christie was rather brilliant—and sometimes quite sly and witty—at naming characters like, for example, Arthur Hastings (a man who was very much like a chivalrous King Arthur but was always far too hasty in jumping to conclusions as far as Poirot was concerned).

“I have no concerns about him,” Mr. Dobble replied. His normally pale cheeks sported two subtle spots of color. “Why do you ask?”

Phyllida wasn’t about to share the details of her interactions with the French cook (she wasn’t convinced he was even French, to be honest). “Does he put you in mind of anyone?”

The spots over his cheekbones flared a little redder. “What do you mean? What are you trying to say, Mrs. Bright?”

Mystified by his reaction, Phyllida pressed on when she might otherwise have dropped the subject. “Does he not put you in mind of a little Belgian detective, perhaps?” She knew that Mr. Dobble was as avid a reader of Agatha’s—and other crime novels—as she was.

“A little—what? Mrs. Bright, are you suggesting the cook resembles Hercule Poirot?” Mr. Dobble’s flush had fled and now he merely appeared outraged. “Of course not. Not in the least bit. Perhaps you ought to see an eye doctor whilst here in London, Mrs. Bright. Your penchant for Mrs. Agatha’s creation has begun to addle your brain.”

Phyllida was far too used to him to take offense at his words. But she was more taken aback by the fact that he either didn’t see Monsieur Chardonnay’s resemblance to Poirot—which must be obvious to anyone who had eyes in their head and had read Mrs. Agatha’s books—or that he was denying it in order to be contrary with her.

Assuring herself it was likely the latter, Phyllida was about to take her leave when the telephone rang.

“Will you or shall I, Mr. Dobble?” she said politely.

“By all means, Mrs. Bright,” he said with a sharp wave. “Clearly you need something to occupy your fanciful mind.”

Phyllida hardly heard the last of his speech, for she had slipped back out into the hall and found the telephone table. “Gantry House, Mrs. Bright speaking.”

“Oh, Phyllida! Thank heavens you’re there!” It was Agatha, and she sounded unusually breathless.

“We arrived perhaps a quarter of an hour ago, as planned,” Phyllida told her. She expected her friend and employer to go on and advise her of some last-minute dinner party to be held there that evening, which wouldn’t have ruffled Phyllida’s feathers in the least even if Agatha was worried about it.

But instead, her friend went on in a most unexpected manner.

“I need you to come to the Adelphi Theater, Phyllie. As soon as possible. Someone . . . why, someone’s died.” Then Agatha’s voice dropped lower, as if to, in vain, keep the operator from listening in. “It might be murder, Phyllie.”

“WHAT’S THE BIG HURRY, THEN, MRS. BRIGHT?” SAID BRADFORD as he navigated the Daimler away from Gantry House. “Heading to the Strand in the middle of the day, are we?”

Blessedly, Myrtle had somehow been left behind, and so at least Phyllida didn’t have to contend with the beast climbing about in all of its panting, drooling glory.

She had taken the time to change out of her traveling clothes, efficiently swapping the summer tweed suit she’d worn on the train for a steely blue-gray one with a pale blue polka-dotted blouse. She’d topped her unusual strawberry-gold hair with a navy hat that had a jaunty black feather keeping time with her movements, setting its pointed brim just over her left brow in a little saucy dip. Her white gloves were spotless, of course, and her black shoes buffed into a streakless matte finish. The fact that Phyllida did not dress like a housekeeper in drab, understated navy, black, or brown frocks was a constant source of irritation to Mr. Dobble. Therefore she made certain to sail past his pantry on the way out the door, letting him know she was leaving and that he could meet with Monsieur Chardonnay about the menus.

Phyllida looked at Bradford, noticing he was still wearing his cap over the thick, unruly, dark hair that was a perfect match for Myrtle’s coat. Was it because they were in London that he’d suddenly become fashion conscious?

“Apparently someone has died at the Adelphi Theater and Mrs. Agatha would like me to come in order to . . .” Here her voice trailed off in an uncharacteristic manner.

Why had Agatha insisted she come? Phyllida knew perfectly well there were plenty of capable (and, to be sure, not so capable) police officials and coroners in London who could handle such things as dead people. It wasn’t as if they were in Listleigh, with the barely competent Inspector Cork and trudging Constable Greensticks.

“Another murder, is it, then, Mrs. Bright? They do seem to follow you about.”

In the past, Phyllida might have been perturbed by Bradford’s needling—it was, after all, a familiar repartee of theirs—but this time she merely looked at him. “I did not say it was m. . .