Two Weddings and a Murder

Book 9: Lady and Lady's Maid Mystery

by Alyssa Maxwell

Genres: Historical Mysteries; Private Investigators

Synopsis

As Lady Phoebe and her betrothed say their vows of holy matrimony, a killer has vowed unholy vengeance on the town’s chief inspector . . .

June 1922: The blessed day has finally arrived. Phoebe Renshaw and Owen Seabright are to be wed, and lady’s maid Eva Huntford could not be more delighted for her lady’s happiness. But she is disturbed by one notable absence from the ceremony—her beau, Police Constable Miles Brannock. When Miles finally does appear, breathlessly running into the reception at Foxwood Hall, he brings grim news: he’s found Chief Inspector Isaac Perkins murdered, shot in his home in his favorite parlor chair with his own gun.
 
A policeman naturally makes enemies, especially those of questionable character. In charge of finding his former boss’s killer, Miles reviews the details of the crime scene. The murder weapon has been wiped clean and left on the table next to the remnants of the chief inspector’s breakfast: sausage pasty and coffee reeking of a bit of whiskey. No sign of forced entry. A seemingly peaceful scene—other than the bullet hole in the victim.
 
Before Miles can make much progress in his investigation, a Scotland Yard detective arrives in Little Barlow to take over the case—and promptly focuses his suspicions on the constable himself, who he reasons had motive and opportunity. Coming to their maid’s defense, Phoebe and Owen postpone their honeymoon to join Eva in clearing her beau’s good name and unmasking the identity of the true killer . . .

Release date: February 25, 2025

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 272

Sample

June 1922

A tingle of anticipation raced along Phoebe Renshaw’s spine as she regarded the shimmer of alabaster satin draped over the dress form in her bedroom. The fabric, unadorned but for its flawless sheen, was draped to one side and held in place with what appeared to be a diamond-encrusted brooch the size of a man’s hand, but was, in fact, a hook-and-eye closure beaded with crystals and embroidered in silver. The arrangement lent the gown a clever asymmetry that declared it as modern as could be. Although the current trend was for shorter wedding dresses, Phoebe had opted for full length. She delighted in the gown and counted the hours until she felt its cool glide against her skin.

Her grandmother, on the other hand, sighed yet again, a sound that prompted Phoebe to turn away from her wedding gown and regard the woman who had raised her since she had turned six. “Grams, even you must admit it’s a work of art. And that it suits me. And that it’s going to play an essential part in the happiest day of my life.”

Grams tilted her head, as if that slight change in perspective might suddenly reveal the dress in a new light. “If only it weren’t quite so plain.”

Phoebe reached out to pet the Staffordshire bull terrier lounging on the floor beside Grams. Given to them as a puppy two years ago by Owen, Mr. Fairfax had immediately gravitated to Grams’s side and had rarely left it since. “What do you think, sir?” she asked the dog, stroking the luxurious patches of brown and white down his back. “You like it, don’t you, boy?”

Mr. Fairfax thumped his tail, sniffed at Phoebe’s hand, and gave an approving lick.

Phoebe’s elder sister, Julia, rose from the foot of the bed and sauntered over to the full-length mirror beside Phoebe’s dressing table. “I’m afraid I have to agree with Phoebe, Grams. The dress is charming on her. Anything else—anything with tiers or petticoats or flounces—would have made her appear short. Because Phoebe is a tad short.” She flicked an unapologetic gaze at Phoebe. “No offense.”

She smiled. “None taken.”

Grams sighed again. “I don’t see what would have been wrong with a smidgen of lace or a ruffle or two.”

“Don’t worry, Grams.” Phoebe’s younger sister, Amelia, did a little pirouette before plucking a shortbread biscuit from the tray Eva had brought in earlier. “You still have my wedding to look forward to, and you know I adore lace. My wedding dress shall have oodles of it.”

“You’re much too young to think about marriage,” Grams admonished, but not without a fond look at her youngest granddaughter. At nearly twenty years old, Amelia was not at all too young to consider marriage, but Phoebe understood Grams’s fear of too many changes at once. “And don’t use words like ‘oodles,’ Grams added. “It makes you sound American.”

Phoebe crossed to the easy chair by the window, crouched before Grams, and took her hand. “I know you wish me to be married in a dress I love, and I love this one. Besides, the lace will be in my veil, as you well know.” As Julia had for her first wedding, Phoebe would don her great-great-grandmother’s Honiton lace, a wedding tradition begun by Queen Victoria herself. Perhaps it didn’t truly go with the design of Phoebe’s gown, but Grams’s disappointment would be manyfold if she didn’t wear it. Besides, Eva, her lady’s maid since before the Great War, would work an artistic miracle incorporating the veil with the crystal orange blossom headpiece Phoebe would wear.

She rose and glanced at the dress with longing. They were all still in their wrappers, their hair in curling pins, but in only two hours she would slip into its elegance, slide into the backseat of the Rolls-Royce beside Grampapa, and make her way to the village church.

Where Owen would be waiting.

The door swung open. Eva had left only minutes ago for a fresh pot of tea, but as she burst into the room now, her hands were empty. “It’s Lady Cecily,” she said breathlessly. “She’s missing.”

“What?” Phoebe, her sisters, and Grams spoke at once. Grams came to her feet—or sprang, Phoebe would say, with the energy of a woman half her age. “What do you mean missing?”

Before Eva could form a reply, a voice could be heard from somewhere down the corridor. “We must find her immediately! Immediately, I tell you! Raise the alarm!”

“That’s Lucille,” Grams said, and hurried from the room, Mr. Fairfax streaming out behind her. Julia darted after her like a startled jackrabbit. Only Phoebe and Amelia hesitated, staring at each other in dismay. A missing Great-Aunt Cecily could seriously hamper the day’s proceedings. And if anything happened to the octogenarian, who also happened to be Julia’s great-aunt by marriage—well, a weight of dread dropped in Phoebe’s stomach.

Amelia rallied herself with a too-bright smile. “Don’t worry. She’ll be found. She’s probably gone belowstairs to hunt down a treat or two. You know what a sweet tooth she has. Let’s just hope she hasn’t swiped a finger across the frosting on your cake.”

Phoebe hoped—prayed—Amelia was right, yet a sinking feeling suggested this latest crisis would not be so easily resolved.

Eva had followed Julia into the corridor. Now she strolled back in bearing a smile that resembled Amelia’s in its artificial optimism. “Don’t you worry about a thing. It looks as though every available hand is joining the search. Lady Cecily will be found presently, I’m quite sure of it.”

To that, Phoebe blew out an exasperated breath. Eva crossed the room to her and grasped her firmly by the shoulders. “Now, none of that. You’re not to give the matter another thought. Let everyone else in the house worry about Lady Cecily. You’re to concentrate on one thing, and one thing only: your happy day. Now then, Phoebe, take a seat in front of the mirror and I’ll do your hair.”

Sometime over the past year, the last vestiges of employer-servant protocol had dissolved between them, leaving them on familiar terms. Eva had dispensed with calling her my lady, and Phoebe was glad of it; glad to have a true friend in Eva, rather than merely someone who showed her deference because of wages paid. She needed that friend today, far more than she needed a lady’s maid—albeit no one could arrange her hair the way Eva could.

Phoebe did her best to hide her qualms as Eva led her, like a docile child, to her dressing table and gently pressed her onto its tufted bench. Sure enough, as each curling pin came out to ping on the tabletop and Phoebe gave herself over to the magic of Eva’s ministrations, her cares melted into a swirl of excitement.

Two hours later, Eva paused for a breath at the bottom of the servants’ staircase. Lady Cecily and been found, and the family and their guests were now piling into the automobiles, with Phoebe and her grandfather waiting until everyone else had left. Eva would go to the church with the servants, but first she wanted the details about Lady Cecily. She followed the trill of excited voices into the servants’ hall, where the staff were gathering before setting off together.

“Where was she found?” she asked while simultaneously pinning on her best hat, a gift from Phoebe, covered in pale rose silk and trimmed with a grosgrain ribbon and matching rosette. She tipped the asymmetrical brim cunningly low to one side as Vernon, the under butler, offered a reply.

“On the High Road, walking back from the village.” He stood up from the table, giving the coat of his Sunday best suit a tug.

Eva’s hands, still fussing with her hat, hung in midair. “She walked all the way to the village and back?”

Vernon shrugged. “Don’t know if she made it all the way there. I only know she was walking back when I found her. Just ambling along the roadside, hands full of wildflowers. Like this were any normal Sunday morning.”

“What did the dowager marchioness have to say when she saw her aunt?” Eva wanted to know. Lady Lucille Leighton, dowager marchioness of Allerton, was Lady Cecily’s niece.

As Vernon shrugged, Mrs. Sanders, the housekeeper, turned briskly into the room. “I do hope you’re not gossiping. You know the rules about gossiping about our betters.”

That last word produced more than a few winces from those in the room, Eva included. Since the war, fewer and fewer of them took for granted the traditional view of servants being inherently beneath their employers—a view Eva once shared—and instead acknowledged that one’s circumstances owed much to the luck of one’s birth, and that while service was certainly an honorable occupation, there were other choices to be had. Looking around the room, Eva saw the evidence of this new philosophy in the dwindling numbers of Foxwood Hall’s servants. So many young people these days opted to find work in the cities.

Dora, once Foxwood Hall’s scullery maid but now an assistant to the cook, gathered up her hat and handbag. “Mrs. Sanders,” she said with far more self-assurance than she once would have shown, “we’re only concerned about Lady Cecily and hope her niece didn’t suffer too much of a fright.”

“And then there’s Lady Phoebe,” added Connie, who also had enjoyed a recent promotion and was now head housemaid. “Such a tumultuous start to her wedding day. Is she quite settled now, Eva?”

“Quite.” Eva set her own handbag on the table and stood before it. She gave a sideways glance at Mrs. Sanders. “And I did glimpse an enormously relieved Lady Allerton—the dowager that is. Although, Lady Allerton the younger, as was our Lady Julia, was vastly relieved as well.”

“All right, all of you. The disaster has been averted.” Mrs. Sanders clapped her hands together. “We’d best be off or we’ll be late for the ceremony. Some of you will have to walk, as we can’t all fit in the farm lorry and the motors are all needed for the guests.”

The three footmen and Vernon indicated they planned to walk. That left the maidservants, Mrs. Sanders, Eva, and dear old Mr. Giles to ride in the lorry, which in fact wasn’t a farm lorry any longer, since Lord Wroxly had it fitted with wooden benches along the sides of its bed for the express use of the servants on Sundays.

Mrs. Sanders waved the male servants on, admonishing them to hurry on their way. As Eva piled along with the others into the back of the lorry, she found herself seated next to Mr. Giles. The Renshaws’ longtime butler, the kindly man had become rather unsteady and forgetful in recent years. Lord Wroxly kept him on officially as butler, although it was Vernon who did most of the work. It warmed her heart when he reached for her hand and held it fast.

“Why, I’m finding myself quite nervous, Miss Huntford. One might think it was my wedding we’re off to.”

“I completely understand, sir.” Eva’s fingers tightened around his in reassurance. “I want everything to go perfectly for Lady Phoebe. This is a happy day for all of us.”

Except that, once at the church, Eva’s own happiness dimmed a fraction. She stood outside St. George’s, Little Barlow’s ancient Anglican church made of honey-colored Cotswold stone, and gazed up and down the High Street. Everyone else had gone in to take their seats, and now the organist began playing softly to encourage people to settle in. Lady Phoebe and Lord Wroxly would be arriving at any moment.

But where was Miles?

She and Miles Brannock had been stepping out together these three years or so, and he had promised to meet her here promptly at ten forty-five. Surely on this glorious morning in this sleepy village there could not have been a crime to keep him away. Then again, Little Barlow wasn’t nearly as peaceful as it often looked; Lord knew, as did Phoebe and Eva, that evildoers struck at the most inopportune times and in the most unlikely of places. Still, nothing but serenity pervaded the curving High Street, the pavements swept clean, the window boxes outside the shops teeming with spring blossoms, the sky overhead a stretch of bright blue velvet punctuated with pearly clouds.

No, surely nothing bad could happen on such a day as this. Miles would be here shortly. But to ensure Eva wasn’t standing outside when Lady Phoebe arrived, she hurried in and took her seat near the back of the nave with the other servants, saving a space for Miles. The pews were packed, with as many of the villagers as possible having squeezed in. The front pews had been reserved for the family, including aunts and uncles who hadn’t been seen in years, along with Lady Julia’s mother-in-law, Lucille Leighton, and her aunt Cecily. On the other side of the aisle sat Owen Seabright’s parents and a handful of relatives.

At some invisible signal, the organist slid into the opening notes of the bridal processional. The congregants stood. A door to one side of the transept opened and out strode Owen Seabright and, right behind him and standing in for Lord Owen’s deceased brother, was Phoebe’s brother, Fox. Eva felt a surge of pride in the young man. Only a few years ago an arrogant terror in an Eton tailcoat, Fox Renshaw, at eighteen, with his golden-brown hair slicked back from his chiseled features, looked every inch the earl he would someday be.

A burst of spring air flooded the church as the doors at the back swung open. All turned their gazes to the vestibule, and when Phoebe, on Lord Wroxly’s arm, stepped through, a collective, delighted gasp echoed through the church. Phoebe had been right about her gown. It was a statement in simple elegance, unequaled in quality, and set off her best features. Dearest Phoebe had always considered herself plain, but in that gown, with its sleek asymmetry and gentle folds gathered at her right hip, even Julia, long considered the beauty of the family, paled in comparison. Beside her, Lord Wroxly walked straighter, stood taller, and his shoulders spread wider than they had in years. Tears pushed at the backs of Eva’s eyes.

Amelia and Julia followed, and another gasp was heard. They wore palest yellow silk, vividly mirrored by the little bouquet of primroses and celandine they carried. Amelia had donned a headpiece studded with amber stones that caught the candlelight, with golden ribbons trailing down her back. The outfits were similar, yet where Amelia’s dress had been fitted and tucked and had the darlingest short sleeves, Julia, as matron of honor and in the family way, wore a looser-fitting garment with three-quarter sleeves, and instead of a circlet, she wore the smartest little chapeau with a shallow crown and a flat brim.

Yet, even in Eva’s joy for her lady, a worry slipped through. Miles should have been here. Had Chief Inspector Perkins refused him the morning off? Eva’s gaze slid past Phoebe and her sisters into the vestibule. Perhaps he had arrived late and didn’t wish to interfere with the procession. Perhaps he would slip in as soon as Phoebe reached the altar . . .

The slimmest shadow fell over Phoebe’s happiness as she passed Eva on her way down the aisle. Tears of joy glittered in her friend’s eyes, but then, for an instant, Eva’s gaze slid past her and a worried look crossed her features. And in that moment, Eva’s concerns became Phoebe’s.

But only until Owen, standing at the front of the church between Fox and Mr. Hershel, the vicar, filled her vision and blocked out all other thoughts. In his morning suit, broad at the shoulders and trim at the waist, and the dove-gray trousers that tapered to the shape of his legs, he stole her breath. The look in his eyes, as his gaze locked with hers, brought tears to her own. She was about to become this man’s wife, and she had never been more certain of anything in her life. Before entering the church, Grampapa had leaned close and whispered in her ear, “You’re sure?” She had replied with a steady smile and a kiss on his dear cheek.

The people around her blurred into a mosaic of bright colors, all of them wearing their finest, while the organ music took up the very rhythm of her heart. A few faces did stand out. From the front row, Grams stared back at her with brimming eyes—not at all typical of her stoic grandmother. Owen’s parents, Lord and Lady Clarebridge, looked as pleased as they had the day Owen and Phoebe had made their announcement to them. They had held nothing back in welcoming her into the family, although Phoebe knew they hoped she might cure him of his penchant to “dabble in business and industry,” as they liked to put it. With a small inheritance from his maternal grandmother, Owen had invested in the wool industry. His mills had helped clothe the British forces during the war and continued to supply clothing manufacturers throughout Great Britain. Phoebe, alas, would prove a disappointment to Lord and Lady Clarebridge, as she had no intention of dissuading Owen from continuing in the business he had built.

From the corner of her eye, she also caught a brief glimpse of Great-Aunt Cecily standing at Lucille Leighton’s side, her expression angelic and her chin tipped at an innocent angle as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred that morning. As if she hadn’t put the entire household into a high state of alarm. Thank goodness she had been found, unharmed. When Phoebe thought of what might have happened . . .

No. She would not allow such thoughts today.

The aisle seemed endless, and then, suddenly, she reached Owen’s side, Grampapa having kissed her cheeks and her bouquet having been handed off to Julia. The vicar spoke, but Phoebe barely heard the words. Owen slipped the ring on her finger—like her dress, it was smooth, sleek, and unadorned but for the inscription and two linked hearts inside—and before Phoebe could take a breath his lips were on hers. Warmth and love and joy filled her—not the kind that made one breathless, but which settled deep inside and would keep her contented for a lifetime.

The music swelled, the congregation applauded, and Phoebe, her arm linked through Owen’s, found herself retracing her steps down the aisle. Outside, a shower of rice and flower petals greeted them, along with the joyous faces of family, friends, and villagers.

And Eva, of course, was standing off to one side with the other servants, a handkerchief crumpled in one hand, her cheeks still wet. Always Eva, friend and sister and mother, there through the most difficult times of Phoebe’s life. All Phoebe wanted now was to see Eva find her own happiness.

Upstairs in Phoebe’s room, Eva and Lady Julia’s maid, Hetta, attended to a steady stream of female guests who needed touch-ups on their cosmetics or hair, or a bit of lace or trim sewn back into place. They also applied cold compresses to two ladies who had developed headaches, and prepared a bicarbonate of soda for one suffering a bout of dyspepsia. Eva and Hetta mostly attended to the younger relatives and friends of the sisters, while Lady Wroxly’s maid took care of the matrons.

A little after noon, Dora came up with a tray laden with selections from the wedding breakfast, which was really more of a lunch. A couple of times, during quiet intervals, Eva and Hetta had tiptoed to the upper gallery and peeked down on the festivities, which spilled from the dining and drawing rooms into the Great Hall. Eva could have watched Phoebe and her new husband dance for hours, they looked so blissful together. Or, when the six-piece band struck up a lively foxtrot, Eva marveled at how perfectly synchronized they were. Phoebe had removed her veil, the effect of which was to transform her wedding dress into a chic gown worthy of any social event. Such a shame she couldn’t wear it again.

Soon enough, other guests came drifting up the stairs in need of their ministrations, and Eva and Hetta would resume their tasks. It was late into the afternoon when things quieted downstairs and Dora reappeared, this time with a tea tray.

“Thought you two could use it,” she said, and poured them each a cup.

“I could use to put my feet up,” Swiss-born Hetta replied, plunking down into a chair near the hearth. “Such a busy day, ja? But a gut day. A very gut day. I am happy for your lady, Eva.”

Hetta pronounced Eva’s name in the German way, with a long A sound. When she had first begun to serve Lady Julia, she and Eva could barely understand one another, but after being in England only a few years, her English had vastly improved. But no wonder. It had turned out that Hetta had understood much more than she initially let on, believing—perhaps rightly so at the time—that Lady Julia preferred a maid who was unable to eavesdrop.

Eva handed Hetta a cup and saucer after Dora poured, took one for herself, and settled in the chair beside Hetta’s. “I’d say we’ve made a job well done of it today.”

“The day’s not over yet.” Dora stood before them, her arms crossed. “Don’t forget we get to celebrate, too. So drink your tea, go upstairs and freshen up, and come down for the real party.”

Eva and Hetta traded weary glances. But as soon as they had drained their cups, they pushed to their feet and did as Dora bade them. It was on Eva’s way down the back staircase that Miles creeped back into her thoughts. Anticipation that he’d be waiting below sped her steps.

Yet amid the voices and faces filling the corridor and servants’ hall, his was not among them. Worry mingled with slight annoyance, until Eva remembered that M. . .