Murder Under the Mistletoe

Book 0: Jane Wunderly Mystery

by Erica Ruth Neubauer

Genres: Historical Mysteries; International Crime & Mystery

Synopsis

Recently engaged Jane Wunderly is celebrating Christmas with her fiancé at his ancestral home at the quaint English market town of Barnard Castle—where murder is the new family tradition . . .

Northern England, 1926: Surprised by her eager acceptance of Redvers’ proposal, Jane is ready to spend the festive season deciphering the mysterious man she agreed to marry, while surviving scrutiny from the icy Dibble clan at their snow-dusted manor. But all attention shifts to the announcement of upcoming nuptials between the humorless Evelyn Hesse and the man who will become Jane’s father-in-law.
 
One fact is clear—Evelyn shouldn’t be trusted. Not as rumors swirl about the deaths of her other husbands. Not after a man is murdered at a party before Christmas Day. With one wedding approaching and their own in peril, Jane and Redvers must dash to unravel dark secrets that could ruin their first holiday together . . . or cost another person their life.

Release date: September 26, 2023

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 147

Sample

The closer our train came to the little English town of Barnard Castle, the quieter Redvers became. It was rather at odds with the otherwise festive atmosphere felt by the other passengers, many of whom were laden down with paper-wrapped packages they were bringing home for Christmas.

“Will someone meet us at the station?” I asked my fiancé.

“Who knows. Hopefully someone will think to fetch us.” Redvers’ face betrayed little, but tension radiated from him in waves. Coming back to his ancestral home for the holiday had been his idea, albeit a reluctant one. The invitation had been extended by his father—his mother having passed years earlier—and Redvers’ first instinct had been to decline. But after some thought he’d reconsidered and accepted for both of us, citing some mysterious reason he needed to speak with his father in person.

I had my suspicions as to why that was, but had kept my nose out of things for once—he would tell me in his own time. And frankly, I was delighted to see where Redvers had grown up. Not to mention I was also more than a little curious to meet his father. Their relationship seemed cordial but hardly close, and I looked forward to seeing their interactions in real life. I hoped it would give me some deeper insight into this man I had agreed to marry.

I still couldn’t quite believe I had agreed to marry again. But I had, although so far it was only a verbal agreement—no plans had been set and no rings exchanged.

Despite Redvers’ quiet, I was enjoying the beautiful English countryside from our compartment window. The rolling hills had a light dusting of snow already, which I was surprised to see, but we were far north near the North Pennines, a gorgeous range of hills that saw more snow than most other parts of the country. Or so I was told. I was hopeful for a snowy Christmas.

The railroad stop for Barnard Castle was little more than a small covered roof between two tracks—not a building or stationmaster in sight. Redvers and I disembarked, and looking down the train I could see that only two other passengers were getting off here. We fetched our own luggage from the platform, and I was grateful we were traveling light for this trip, just a suitcase for each of us. Redvers had assured me that I wouldn’t need anything formal—we would not be expected to dress for dinner, so I had packed sparingly.

At the end of the platform stood a man in a long wool coat, hands clasped before him. He was tall and spare and his face was nearly unlined despite the fact that he had to be well into his forties, causing me to wonder if the man ever smiled. We might have walked past him altogether except that he spoke as we pulled near.

“Mr. Dibble?”

Redvers stopped before him. “That’s right.” I was startled by the greeting. I’d become quite accustomed to Redvers’ habit of using only his given name—it was unusual to hear anyone using his surname.

“I’m your father’s chauffeur,” the man replied, barely moving. “Carlisle.”

“You must be new,” Redvers said.

Carlisle gave him a brief nod before he turned to me, the late-afternoon light glinting off his golden hair. “May I take your case, ma’am?”

“Certainly, thank you,” I said, getting my own brief nod of the head in return. We were led to a black sedan where Carlisle stowed my suitcase in the trunk before turning and taking Redvers’ suitcase as well, placing it alongside mine. Redvers went around to the other side of the vehicle while Carlisle opened the door for me, waiting until I had slid into the back seat to close the door behind me.

Carlisle pulled onto the road and Redvers broke the silence. “Is my father at home, Carlisle?”

“He is, sir.”

Redvers nodded, and it seemed as though that was all that would be said, both men settling back into an uncomfortable silence. I wondered at the tension—was this how it would be with all of the staff in the Dibble household? Carlisle was obviously new, but he didn’t seem chatty or even terribly welcoming. Or was the silence simply because Redvers wasn’t familiar with this member of his father’s staff?

Barnard Castle was a charming little village, what was apparently referred to as a market town, and named after the castle that had once stood here, in ruins now. The shops on the main street were decorated gaily for Christmas—greenery and wreaths and ribbons abounded. Shop windows had their wares on display, and I couldn’t help but smile and hope that I would have an opportunity during our stay to do a little shopping. I had yet to find a gift for Redvers, but I had the feeling that the perfect thing would reveal itself to me when I saw it. Or perhaps that was what I was hoping would happen—it was our first holiday together and I was feeling quite a bit of pressure to get it right, even though I was certain Redvers wouldn’t really care. It would be the thought that counted as far as he was concerned.

We passed through the town and found ourselves on a narrow country road. I was about to comment on the beautiful countryside, when we took a right turn into what at first glance looked like nothing but a hedgerow, but proved to be an actual road leading somewhere. Two deep, well-traveled ruts were worn into the dirt and we bumped along.

Redvers glanced at me. “Just a bit farther.”

I smiled at him, but he was already gazing out the front with what seemed a little like dread. I wondered, not for the first time, if I should be bracing myself for an unpleasant visit.

But this musing was interrupted when the trees opened up and the house revealed itself. It was a charming stone manor house. Nothing nearly the size and grandeur of Wedgefield Manor, the estate belonging to my aunt Millie’s fiancé, but a large and gracious home nonetheless. I looked at Redvers, but his expression remained the same—completely neutral and impassive. This was nothing new; he was really quite skilled at controlling his facial expressions, and it was probably only that I knew him so well that I could sense his unease.

Carlisle stopped the car, and I had my door open before the poor man could open it himself. His face didn’t change, but I could see his shoulders stiffen. I would have to remember to be a little less American while I was here. Things were obviously more formal at the Dibble home than they were at the last manor I’d stayed at.

“I’m sorry, Carlisle,” I said, and the man gave me another small incline of the head. I wondered if he was ever rattled and just what that might take.

Carlisle closed my door behind me. “Your bags will be delivered to your rooms,” Carlisle told us. I thanked him and followed Redvers to the front door, which was opened by an older man with salt-and-pepper hair wearing an impeccably kept dark suit. I glanced around the foyer—beautiful parquet floors and a suit of armor standing sentry greeted us, although the décor was otherwise sparse.

“Mr. Youngblood,” Redvers greeted the butler. “I trust you’re well.”

“I am, thank you, Mr. Dibble.” Youngblood was currently helping me off with my coat. He reached out and took Redvers’ gray wool coat as well. “Your father is in the library.”

“Thank you, Youngblood,” Redvers said.

I perked up at the mention of a library. At least I might be able to find some new reading material—I hadn’t brought any with me since luggage space was at a bit of a premium. Redvers took a deep breath and a look around before turning to me. “Nothing has changed,” he said. Then he gave me a completely unconvincing smile. I cocked my head and touched his arm in a show of solidarity. This time his smile was more sincere, and he held out his arm for me to take before leading me down the hallway.

The decorations throughout the place were staid and somewhat stuffy—not a lot of warmth to be found here. The temperature inside the house was even a bit chilly—I was tempted to rub my arms and might have done so if I didn’t have the warmth from Redvers’ arm. That changed, however, once we stepped through the doorway to the library where a bright fire crackled merrily. Within moments I began to sweat—it went from one extreme to the other at the Dibble home, it would appear. A quick glance around showed the usual bookcases stretching across the walls from floor to ceiling, but it didn’t appear that there were going to be a lot of novels for my perusing—all I could see were heavy leather-bound volumes that appeared strictly academic in nature. I would have to make a more thorough inspection later, but I wasn’t holding out much hope.

Two figures were seated in the armchairs before the fireplace, although there was no conversation. It didn’t appear as though either individual had heard us approach, so Redvers cleared his throat. “Father?”

The figure on the left jerked slightly, then turned. “Redvers. You made it.” The man stood and came around his chair, but stopped, resting his hand on the tall back. I knew the British were not necessarily an affectionate people, but I was taken aback. Not even a handshake for the son he hadn’t seen in nearly a year?

“Your trip was uneventful, I trust?” Humphrey Dibble asked. I took the man in while he engaged in banal conversation with his son. I felt as though I was seeing Redvers in a few decades—there was no denying the resemblance between the two, and his father with his thick silver hair was still quite a handsome man.

Just then the figure seated in the other chair stood and came around her own chair.

I managed to keep my eyebrows steady, but they were quite tempted to leap up in surprise. I wasn’t aware that Redvers’ father had a female companion, and one who was obviously some years younger than himself. She had a sharp face, almost foxlike, with a prominent bump on her nose and dark eyes. But even for all her hard edges, she was an attractive woman, dressed in a navy day dress that showed off her petite figure, her hair pulled into a conservative updo.

Redvers wasn’t quite so successful with his own eyebrows—I saw one of them shoot up at the woman’s appearance. It would seem Redvers hadn’t known about this woman either.

“Evelyn Hesse,” Redvers said. “I didn’t know you would be visiting. I heard your husband passed away. I’m very sorry.”

She inclined her head. “Thank you.” She looked at Humphrey. “Of course, I mourn his loss, but it has allowed for other opportunities.” Evelyn put her hand on Humphrey’s arm.

Humphrey Dibble nodded. “Yes, we’re engaged to be married.”

Normally I was the one whose mouth was left flapping open like a fish, but this time it was Redvers, which I found to be an interesting change of pace. I decided it was time to take charge of the conversation.

“What a coincidence. I’m Redvers’ fiancée, Jane.” This time it was Redvers’ father who was struck dumb. It was obvious that the Dibble men didn’t communicate regularly, or in great detail.

When Humphrey regained himself, he managed to come forward and shake my hand, then his son’s. “I thought you said you would never marry, Redvers.”

“And I thought you would never marry again. It looks as though we were both wrong,” Redvers said, one hand casually resting on the small of . . .