Murder in maidstone, p.1
Murder In Maidstone, page 1
MURDER IN
MAIDSTONE
Marilyn Clay
A Juliette Abbott
Regency Mystery
Book Six
Table of Contents
Title Page
Murder In Maidstone (A Juliette Abbott Regency Mystery, #6)
MURDER IN MAIDSTONE | Book Six of the Juliette Abbott Regency Mystery Series | A Regency Plume Press Publication | Copyright © June 2019 by Marilyn Jean Clay | All Rights Reserved.
The Primary Players:
CHAPTER 1 | A Scandal in Mayfair
CHAPTER 2 | In Which Juliette Confronts Mr. Phelps
CHAPTER 3 | Face Down In The Garden
CHAPTER 4 | Terrible Things Are Happening Here
CHAPTER 5 | Is Lord Wentworth A Murderer?
CHAPTER 6 | My Suspicions Mount
CHAPTER 7 | Damaged, Delete, Divest, or . . . Divert?
CHAPTER 8 | Twenty Questions
CHAPTER 9 | Are My Eyes Deceiving Me?
CHAPTER 10 | A Secret Ship?
CHAPTER 11 | The Hammer Harpsichord
CHAPTER 12 | In Which The Tartlets Are Tossed
CHAPTER 13 | The Three-Legged Dog
CHAPTER 14 | The Infuriating Lord Summerville
CHAPTER 15 | An Unexpected Invitation
CHAPTER 16 | An Impromptu Evening of Dancing
CHAPTER 17 | Stolen Moments
CHAPTER 18 | Tilda Goes Sleuthing . . .
CHAPTER 19 | Trading Places
CHAPTER 20 | Bees In Our Bonnets
CHAPTER 21 | Face Down In The Water
CHAPTER 22 | Battledore and the Bath Chair
CHAPTER 23 | A Scandalous Overnight Guest
CHAPTER 24 | Another Tongue Lashing
CHAPTER 25 | Prisoners of Maidstone Manor
CHAPTER 26 | The Incriminating Post
CHAPTER 27 | The Wages of Sin
CHAPTER 28 | The Mighty Will Fall
CHAPTER 29 | All’s Well That Ends Well
AUTHOR’S NOTES
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
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MURDER IN MAIDSTONE
Book Six of the Juliette Abbott Regency Mystery Series
A Regency Plume Press Publication
Copyright © June 2019 by Marilyn Jean Clay
All Rights Reserved.
All parts of the book titled MURDER IN MAIDSTONE are protected by the copyright laws of the United States of America and other countries. No portion of this book may be reproduced, electronically transmitted, digitized, taped, recorded, scanned, or reprinted in whole or in part, by photocopying, printing, faxing, E-mailing, or copying electronically for any purpose, including that of distributing
on the web; nor can it be stored in any sort of retrieval system for any reason
without the express written permission from the author, Marilyn Jean Clay.
MURDER IN MAIDSTONE, Book Six of the Juliette Abbott Regency Mystery Series is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real, or factual. Any resemblance to actual events, names of persons living or dead, village names, estates, locales, or organizations, is entirely coincidental.
Images used are copyright free, or used with permission.
Published and printed in the United States of America
ISBN-13: 978-1072235309
The Primary Players:
JULIETTE ABBOTT – (18) Assigned to catalogue valuable antiquities imported from the continent and rare artifacts found on the grounds of Maidstone Manor.
Tilda – (15) Miss Abbott’s lady’s maid who accompanies her to Maidstone.
Lord & Lady Wentworth – (Charles & Edna) Reside at Maidstone Manor. His title is Manorial, meaning he is not a peer, nor does he hold a seat in Parliament.
Kashi & Mrs. Hashi-Kashi – The Wentworth’s Chinese butler and housekeeper.
Frank & Percival Wentworth – (24 and 26) The Wentworth sons, who travel the world in search of antiquities, treasures and fine art to procure for their father.
Frances & Regina Wentworth – (20 and 21) Daughters eager to alter their marital state before being consigned a permanent place on the shelf and thereafter considered unmarriageable spinsters. (Unfortunately, they are not pretty girls.)
Lucy, Lady Lovelace – (22) the Wentworth’s widowed niece. (Up to no good.)
William Sheridan – Miss Abbott’s friend; employed by England’s Home Office. Mr. Sheridan investigates criminal activity against the crown, often whilst incognito. In this story, he assumes several identities. (Oh, my.)
Sir Anthony Hartley, Mr. Addison – Prospective suitors of the Wentworth sisters who attend the house party (and who manage to muddle things).
Miss Jane Martin, Helena Roster, Elinor Herbert – young ladies at the party.
Lesser Players: Miss Susan Weston, Mr. Henderson (dec.), and Mr. Blodgett.
CHAPTER 1
A Scandal in Mayfair
LONDON, ENGLAND
Thursday, 23 August 1821
It is generally assumed that a young woman who appears to reside alone is, in fact, possessed of a husband who resides elsewhere. Mayhap the gentleman is of a reclusive bent and prefers to live apart from his wife and therefore passes months or even years sequestered upon the family estate attending to matters in the country whilst his wife entertains herself taking tea with her lady friends in Town, or perhaps overseeing the come-out of an eager young miss in search of a husband of her own.
If perchance the lady’s husband is possessed of a title, it is generally expected that for at least a short span of each year, he will join his wife in London in order to attend to his Parliamentary duties. Gentlemen, even ones who prefer their own company to that of others, including their wives, generally do take their governmental responsibilities seriously and however detached the gentleman might prefer to remain from his family, he will still uproot himself from the country in order to be on hand to voice his opinions and cast his vote upon the floor of the House.
On the other hand, whether titled or not, the elusive gentleman might simply prefer to live apart from the hustle and bustle of London and choose instead to serve in the military, or in some other highly regarded position such as an ambassador on foreign soil. A goodly number of these sorts are often rewarded for their unselfish actions; as evidenced by the plethora of honors and accolades heaped upon their heads and reported in the news pages at home in England. Whatever the case . . .
“Ye’ll forgive me for bringin’ up the matter so soon after ye’ve arrived home, Miss Abbott,” my housekeeper Mrs. Gant paused in the midst of what I was beginning to consider a tirade. “But the fact is, ye’ do live here alone and your home is in Mayfair. This ain’t no ramshackle boardin’ house where a unmarried lady might light for a fortnight or two, no; this be a proper Lunnun townhome in a proper Lunnun neighborh . . .”
I held up a hand. “Thank you, Mrs G, I do take your meaning and I truly do understand your concern.” Swallowing an irritable sigh, I rose from where I sat on the pretty blue damask settee in my sitting room adjacent to my bedchamber on the second storey of my pretty home in Mayfair, and crossed the room to stand before the fire, which, upon glancing down, I noted was unlit.
“It seems a bit chilly in here, Mrs. Gant,” I murmured. “I daresay it will soon be time to lay a fire in every room of the house, everyday.”
“True enough, miss; but, as ye’ know, it ain’t yet leaf fall.”
“Nonetheless.” I ran a hand up my bare arm. “I feel quite chilled.”
“I hope ye’ ain’t coming down with somethin’.” A look of genuine concern passed over my elderly housekeeper’s face.
Mrs. Gant and her husband had looked after me as if I were their own daughter for the half dozen years the three of us had been employed by Lady Carstairs, me serving as that titled lady’s companion right up until the day she went on to her reward. That the Gants and I now occupied an elegant townhome in Mayfair was the outcome of another story, one that, in my mind, I think of as a murder in Mayfair.
At any rate, I now directed a somewhat distracted gaze past Mrs. G to the pair of windows gracing the painted wall beyond where she stood wringing her hands on the apron covering her serviceable dark frock. Mrs. Gant, who now serves as both my housekeeper and cook, had only just carried up a tray to my suite containing a steaming bowl of vegetable soup and soft wedge of bread, which, judging from the delicious aroma wafting from it, I assume she had only recently pulled from the oven.
Below stairs, I expect Mr. Gant and Timothy, my young butler, were still carting in my bags from the street. Brook Street, to be exact, in Mayfair, an exclusive neighborhood of London, where, no doubt, a host of my upper-crust neighbors, who occupied one or another of the similar gleaming white townhouses up and down the street, were once again exchanging titillating innuendoes in regard to my marital status, or lack thereof. Apparently I have been the subject of my gossipy neighbors on-dits the entire half year I have lived here.
Mrs. Gant had not let a quarter-hour pass following my arrival home from Middlewych this afternoon before confronting me with the news. Unfortunately, I was accompanied home by a gentleman who is not my husband, but who was clearly visible to the entire neighborhood as he gallantly escorted me up the walk to my front door. Carrying my adorable black and white kitten Little Georgie in her arms, Tilda followed close on our heels. Due to the wagging tongues of my neighbors, I am now d oubly glad that I was accompanied by a maid, who, if you recall, was lent to me by Lady Medley of Medley Park. That fine woman had also pointed out that my reputation would likely suffer irreparable damage were I to travel about the countryside accompanied only by a gentleman, especially one so disturbingly handsome as Mr. Sheridan, the two of us shut up alone in a closed carriage with no maid or companion along as chaperone. Therefore, at Lady Medley’s urging, I had acquiesced and allowed Tilda, who had served as my lady’s maid whilst I was at Medley Park, to accompany me, and my (ahem) good friend, Mr. Sheridan, back up to London.
On the very day we three set out from Medley Park less than a sen’night ago, (which hardly seems possibly given all that has occurred in the interim) I had no clue that we would meet with near disaster on our return journey up to Town, nor that we would be obliged to endure a harrowing four-day stay in the Cotswold village of Middlewych. I confess Lady Medley’s concern regarding the matter of my reputation is quite clear to me now. Although how on earth the mere presence of a five and ten-year-old girl could protect my virtue should either I, or Mr. Sheridan, have made the unfortunate decision to sully it, I do not know.
Nonetheless, emitting another longsuffering sigh, I pulled my thoughts back around to the distressing conversation I was presently engaged in with Mrs. Gant. Given the horrific fortnight I had spent at Medley Park (an experience I had not yet fully got over) and immediately on the heels of it, the aforementioned harrowing stop-over in Middlewych, I was currently in no mood to address Mrs. Gant’s fears. Still, as I am the sole head of my own household here in London (and truth be known, am quite proud of that fact) it appears I have no choice but to address, and do what I can to remedy, the matter straightaway.
Fortunately, Tilda and Little Georgie (who, if you recall, was a going-away gift from Lady Medley’s daughter Hannah) and I did, indeed, arrive back in Town with everyone’s virtue still intact. I assume Tilda was now in the kitchen enjoying a bowl of Mrs. Gant’s delicious soup whilst keeping a watchful eye on Little Georgie, who, I have no doubt, is ravenously hungry by now. My adorable kitten has eaten virtually nothing all day save a scant saucer of milk provided by a serving wench at the inn this morning where we all passed the night. At any rate, instead of being allowed to linger a few moments just now on the doorstep outside my home, or even inside the entryway, to enjoy a private, and fond, farewell with Mr. Sheridan, I was instead rushed up the stairwell by an overset Mrs. Gant to be taken to task by what she perceives to be an immediate threat to us all. Since neither room of my above-stairs suite sports a window that overlooks Brook Street, I was not even afforded a final glimpse of Mr. Sheridan as he climbed back into the dusty Medley Park coach to depart for . . . I know not where.
Another irritable sigh escaped me. Other than a respectful nod and the flicker of a smile that softened his oh, so, handsome features, not so much as a parting word passed between us before long strides carried him out to the carriage awaiting him at the curb.
I confess I had expected . . . well, I do not know what I expected. Perhaps, I had merely wanted . . . something . . . more.
My heart lodged in my throat again as I recalled the gentleman’s cool departure for perhaps the hundredth time in the past quarter hour. Oh, how I wanted . . . some show of affection from him. Of course, he could not very well have gathered me into his arms there on the stoop and kissed me soundly, or even warmly embraced me, or with a longing look upon his face backed his way out to the carriage. None of that would have happened anyhow, and now that Mrs. Gant had quite vividly relayed to me the scope of the speculation and false innuendoes that have taken place in my absence, I suppose I am quite glad that my farewell to Mr. Sheridan was all that can be considered tasteful and proper. Except that I was not the least bit glad. I was very nearly brokenhearted and . . . close on to tears.
“I don’t mean to alarm ye’, Miss Abbott, it’s just that the . . . absence of a close relative, or at the very least, a proper companion, does rather place you beyond the pale, at least in the eyes of Lunnon Society. I fear it also renders you . . . a trifle scandalous to those folks who reside here in Mayfair.” She paused, a pained look creasing her wrinkled countenance. “Not that I agree with the gossipmongers, mind you. I know you would . . . never . . .”
“You are quite right, Mrs. Gant,” I declared crisply. “I would never . . .” I paused, then when I became aware of a worried frown creasing my own brow, I inquired, “You and Mr. Gant have not considered seeking employment . . . elsewhere, have you?”
Given that my association with Mr. Henry Phelps here in London meant that my assignments took me to all parts of England, and I never knew for how long a period I would be away, I was counting upon Mr. and Mrs. Gant to always be on hand to look after my lovely home; and now, to also take care of Little Georgie for me. I could not very well carry him thither and yon on my travels, even if I should want to. And I certainly did not relish having to suddenly seek out and hire on another housekeeper.
“Oh, no, miss.” The older woman’s mobcap-covered head shook. “I merely thought I ought ta’ . . . bring the matter to yer’ attention, is all.” After a pause, she added, “Now if Miss Tilda was to remain here with ya’, as your companion, I ‘spect that would serve to . . .”
“You are quite right, Mrs. Gant. I wonder that I did not think of it myself. Thank you for bringing the matter to my attention. I expect Tilda will readily agree to stay on. I shall post a note to Lady Medley straightaway.”
Exhaling a relieved breath, Mrs. G bobbed a respectful curtsy and turned to go, but near the door, paused. “I most forgot, miss. This come for ye’ yeste’day. From that nice Mr. Phelps.” She re-crossed the room to hand me the missive. “I ‘spect comin’ from him it must be of some import.”
“Thank you, Mrs. G.” I glanced at the direction, then without looking up, said, “Do be sure to put out something tasty for Little Georgie to eat, won’t you? And, ask Mr. G, or Tim, to take the baby outdoors for a little run.” Having already broken the seal and unfolded the page, my eyes now began to scan Mr. Phelps’ fine script. “And, please show Tilda up once she has finished with her luncheon.”
“Indeed, miss.” Mrs. G bobbed another curtsy. “You want I should have Mr. Gant come lay out a nice fire for ya’ now?”
“No, that will not be necessary, thank you.” I continued to read the note from my employer. I fully expected Mr. Phelps was curious to know exactly what had caused me to so hurriedly exit Medley Park, or . . . perhaps he had already received word from Lord Medley . . . word, which could have very well arrived at his establishment here in London far sooner than I did, and which might not be terribly complimentary of my performance, or my hasty departure. Which meant that if I wished to retain my status as a valued associate of Mr. Phelps’ New Bond Street Auction House I had best call upon that gentleman as soon as possible.
And I would do so, as soon as I posted a note to Lady Medley. I doubted she would voice an objection to me permanently employing Tilda as my lady’s maid. Still, given the unexpected disagreeableness that arose at Medley Park, whether or not Mr. Phelps meant to entrust me with any future assignments, remained to be seen.
CHAPTER 2
In Which Juliette Confronts Mr. Phelps
DESPITE THE SLIGHT chill in the air and the fact that I had no clue if, or when, I might ever see Mr. Sheridan again, I did quite enjoy being out of doors on such a lovely day in London. Although the haze of smoke and soot drifting from the chimney pots atop each and every edifice did cast a pall over the city, here and there through the smog I caught glimpses of a clear blue sky tinged with sun about the edges. Pedestrians conversing with one another as they scurried along the busy thoroughfare, it clogged with clattering carriages and anxious horses, was a decided contrast to the soothing sounds of the country that Mr. Sheridan and I and Tilda had only just passed through this morning. Yet, I did not find the City’s noise and bustle objectionable. I had always loved London and now considered myself quite lucky, indeed, to be possessed of a lovely home here. Were I to learn that I am still employed would provide me with additional reasons to allow the gratitude in my heart to chase away the remnants of sorrow from my mind, meaning Mr. Sheridan’s cool departure from me this morning.
