Mydworth Mysteries - Episode 4-6 E-Book

Matthew Costello

• Herausgeber: Bastei Entertainment
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Mydworth: Crime Series Compilations
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 472

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

From the authors of the best-selling series CHERRINGHAM

This compilation contains episodes 4-6:

MURDER WORE A MASK

Lavinia's annual Masked Ball at Mydworth Manor is a highlight of the season - but the lavish party comes to a full stop when one of the guests is found dead down by the lake. Harry and Kat suspect that the dead man was the victim of a clever case of murder. And the killer's work is not yet done...

DEADLY CARGO

Mydworth's Excelsior Radio Company is world-famous for its expensive radio-phonographs. But then its delivery lorries start being hijacked, and the very future of the company is in doubt. Is this just about stolen radios - or is there something more secret and dangerous going on?

DANGER IN THE AIR

The famous aviatrix Amelia Earhart has come to England on a mission to raise money for her planned continent-spanning air rally. But when Amelia's life is threatened, Harry and Kat must figure out who is behind this deadly game before it turns fatal.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Mydworth Mysteries

The Authors

Main Characters

Title

Murder wore a Mask

1. Party Time!

2. A Night to Remember

3. Dance the Night Away

4. Death in Venice

5. A Morning Visit from Aunt Lavinia

6. Footsteps on the Grass

7. The Singer and the Star

8. The Dangerous Secret of Wilfred Carmody

9. A Reason to Murder

10. Murder Indeed

11. Anyone for Tennis?

12. The Truth About Mr Carmody

13. A Quiet Moment

14. A Trip to the Sea

15. A Confession

16. The Mask Drops

17. A Gathering of Liars

18. Fun in the Ballroom

19. One Last Point

20. Tea for Three

Deadly Cargo

1. Trouble on the Road

2. Tea Time Deferred

3. Excelsior

4. State of the Art

5. Trouble

6. The Investigation Begins

7. Meet the Workers

8. An Uninvited Guest

9. Under Cover

10. Checking the Facts

11. Truth at the Tempt-Tea Biscuit Company

12. The Secret of Brooke Farm

13. The Trap is Planned

14. A Trap is Sprung

15. The End of the Road

16. Silencing the Witness

17. A Late-night Chat

Danger in the Air

1. A Perfect Day for Flying

2. Just Another Flight

3. A Fall from the Heavens

4. Welcome to Sussex

5. Sabotage

6. Suspicions

7. Where’s Amelia?

8. Yet Another Worry

9. High Stakes

10. An Unexpected Display

11. A Delicate Situation

12. Night Falls in Mydworth

13. A Real Mydworth Mystery

14. Secrets in the Night

15. The Air Show Goes On

16. The Pantry

17. The Race of Their Lives

18. Bon Voyage

Copyright

Mydworth Mysteries

Mydworth Mysteries is a series of self-contained novella-length mysteries, published in English and German. The stories are currently available as e-books and as audiobooks.

The Authors

Matthew Costello (US-based) is the author of many successful novels published around the globe, including Vacation (2011, in development for film), Home (2014) and Beneath Still Waters (1989), which was adapted by Lionsgate as a major motion picture. He has written for The Disney Channel, BBC, SyFy and has also designed dozens of bestselling games including the critically acclaimed The 7th Guest, Doom 3, Rage, Pirates of the Caribbean, and, with Neil Richards, Planet of the Apes: Last Frontier.

Neil Richards (based in the UK) has worked as a producer and writer in TV and film, creating scripts for BBC, Disney, and Channel 4, and earning numerous Bafta nominations along the way. He’s also written script and story for over 30 video games including The Da Vinci Code and Planet of the Apes, and consults around the world on digital storytelling.

Their transatlantic collaboration has underpinned scores of TV drama scripts, computer games, radio shows, and the best-selling mystery series Cherringham. Their latest series project is called Mydworth Mysteries.

Main Characters

Sir Harry Mortimer, 30 – Born into a wealthy English aristocratic family, Harry is smart, funny and adventurous. Ten years in secret government service around the world has given him the perfect training to solve crimes; and though his title allows him access to the highest levels of English society, he’s just as much at home sipping a warm beer in the garden of a Sussex pub with his girl from the wrong side of the tracks – Kat Reilly.

Kat Reilly –Lady Mortimer, 29 – Kat grew up in the Bronx, right on Broadway. Her mother passed away when she was only eleven and she then helped her father run his small local bar The Lucky Shamrock. But Kat felt the call to adventure and excitement, first as a nurse on the battlefields of France, then working a series of jobs back in New York. After finishing college, she was recruited by the State Department, where she learned skills that would more than make her a match for the dashing Harry. To some, theirs is an unlikely pairing, but to those who know them both well, it’s nothing short of perfect.

MATTHWEW COSTELLONEIL RICHARDS

A Cosy Historical Mystery Compilation

Episode 4 – 6

MATTHWEW COSTELLONEIL RICHARDS

Murder wore a Mask

1. Party Time!

Harry stood at the bay window of the Dower House’s compact sitting room, looking out at the garden in the early evening light.

The gardener, Mr Grayer, borrowed from his Aunt Lavinia, had done an artful job of trimming the hydrangea, and getting all the other bushes and shrubs into an orderly array.

While Harry himself enjoyed messing about in the garden, he and Kat had been so busy, to-ing and fro-ing from Mydworth to their flat in London, it was best to leave the gardening in the capable hands of a professional.

He was tempted – standing by the window, in full fancy dress – to pour himself a few fingers of scotch.

Tonight was going to be one long evening. A big party at Mydworth Manor – the type of party that he thought only his Aunt Lavinia could pull off.

A full-on Venetian masked ball, guests by the hundred, champagne probably on tap the whole night.

Pacing oneself was a good course of action.

He stood there, waiting for Kat to appear, curious what her chosen costume – hidden until tonight – would be.

He heard the sound of steps on the nearby staircase leading down from the upstairs rooms.

He turned to see Maggie, their housekeeper – and the person Harry had known longest in his life – as she came into the room, broad smile on her face.

“You all set, Sir Harry?”

“Now don’t scare me, Maggie. Will I be able to recognise my—”

Then, only steps behind, her black carnival mask already on, dark hair pulled back, he saw Kat.

That is my wife in that absolutely stupendous outfit.

“Well, well, well.” Without a word, Kat glided over to his side. “I do believe you have me speechless, Lady Mortimer.”

“Like it?”

“Love it.”

The long velvet dress – with a low-cut bodice, hugging her frame tight till it spread to a V that went to the floor – fit perfectly. No doubt helped by a stitch here and there by Maggie.

And the shimmering black material seemed to absorb all the light – and then some – in the room.

“You look,” he searched for the mot juste, “absolutely stunning. But who are you supposed to be? Not that I mind, because whoever it is, well... wow.”

Kat laughed. “Your aunt sent over some wonderful designs weeks ago. Picked this one. It’s called ‘courtesan’.”

“Is it? Remind me now, what exactly do courtesans do?”

Kat gave a little twirl, obviously enjoying the effect her outfit was having on him.

“Well who knows, Sir Harry. I imagine we will find out tonight.”

Harry turned to their housekeeper. “And I suppose you helped this along, eh, Maggie? I do believe you missed your calling.”

Maggie grinned broadly. “You better be ready for a lot of eyes taking the two of you in!”

“So, Harry,” Kat said, “any clue for me who you’re supposed to be?”

Harry’s outfit nearly matched Kat’s in sumptuous material, but the comparison ended there: a waist-length cape, open to show a ruffled white shirt, unbuttoned at the top; trousers that fit more like dancer’s leggings; and all of it topped with a cap that he could only describe as “rakish”, complete with an iridescent feather shooting out the back.

“I’d better just tell you. I... am a pirate.”

Harry grinned as he stuck one leg out, and did a half bow.

“I’ve met some pirates in my time, but that...”

“Not exactly what I expected either. But apparently, back in the days of Walter Raleigh, and other sea-faring rapscallions, the commanders of ships that did the looting also had a keen sartorial sense.”

“And that?” said Kat, nodding to the cutlass that swung from a belt around his waist.

Harry stepped back a safe distance, and, with a swish of steel, drew the long blade and adopted a duelling pose.

“Courtesy of great-great-uncle William, renowned swordsman of the 16th The Queen’s Lancers, and hero of the Battle of Aliwal back in ’46, don’t you know!”

He carved the historic sabre through the air a few times, as if parrying unseen attackers, then returned it to its scabbard.

“Normally lives in the ballroom up at the manor. Lavinia said I can hang onto it. Thought I might stick it on my study wall.”

“Well – I know who to come to if my honour needs defending,” said Kat.

“Don’t count on it,” said Harry. “Last time I had a sword fight I was at school.”

“You know, Harry, that’s not something you hear people say much back home in Brooklyn.”

“Fencing! Good God, woman! All part of an English gentleman’s education.”

She took a step closer to him. “You have not forgotten a mask, have you?”

Harry reached into a side pocket on the inside of the cape, pulled out a bright red mask, and slid it on.

And for a moment he stood there, looking at his suddenly serious wife while she gazed at him, the masks working their magic.

Thinking... maybe let’s just forget about the party.

“Time you two were going. I’ll do any clearing up. Things will be nice and tidy whatever hour you get back here.”

Harry turned to Maggie. “Sure you won’t come too? I’m sure we could whip up something quick that would suit you?”

Maggie laughed. “My days of fancy-dress parties ended long ago, Sir Harry. To be honest, I don’t think they ever started. Now, hurry along. Who knows what support your dear aunt may need!”

Harry took Kat’s hand, and, as if escorting some beautiful stranger, he walked her to the door.

A “night in Venice” was about to begin.

*

Feeling a million dollars in her amazing dress, Kat walked arm in arm with Harry, down the long drive towards Mydworth Manor, flaming torches every fifty yards or so, making the event seem more like a medieval pageant.

In the distance, across the gentle slope of the meadows, she could see the manor house, glowing in the golden light of the early evening. The sounds of a jazz band drifted towards them, mingled with distant laughter and conversation.

It seemed the party was in full swing!

Every now and then a vehicle rolled past filled with masked guests in ever more exotic outfits – cardinals, soldiers, dancers, jesters, French courtiers – all crammed into open-top cars, laughing gaily.

Something surreal about it all, she thought.

Other couples coming from the town had clearly also decided to walk, not drive. And Kat thought she recognised some faces behind the masks – and also new friends she had made since arriving here as Harry’s mysterious New York bride.

“Tell you one thing, Harry. Your aunt sure knows how to throw a party,” said Kat.

“Oh yes. When I was growing up here, they were a regular event,” said Harry. “And you never quite know who you’re going to meet.”

“The great and the good?”

“And the bad too, sometimes. Lavinia has quite, um, broad tastes. Long as you’re fun and interesting, that’s all you have to be to get an invite. Though, of course, there are always those who are invited because they have to be.”

“Can’t wait to meet them – good and bad, and in between,” said Kat, as they reached the house and joined a small throng of guests climbing the great steps towards the already packed entrance hall.

At the door she was greeted with a glass of champagne from a footman, and she stepped through, already thrilled by the party atmosphere.

At her side, she saw Harry shaking hands in every direction. He grabbed her hand – a great feeling amid this sea of people – and they forced a path through the crowd towards the living rooms.

“Let’s go find the music, shall we?” he said, and off they went. “The night is young. And, it turns out, so are we...”

2. A Night to Remember

Kat had been to many grand parties in her time working for the American government, in various capital cities across Europe.

But this one? Something else entirely.

All the Manor’s ground-floor rooms had been thrown open – even the Grand Ballroom at the back of the house, which was rarely used: so far she’d only ever seen it covered in dusty white sheets with shutters closed.

Now she could see that the great room positively sparkled, mirrors dazzling, chandeliers bright, the intricate parquet floor spotless as a crowd of guests swayed to the music of a four-piece jazz band that played in the corner.

Not dancing yet, she thought, but, at the rate the champagne was flowing, it clearly wouldn’t take long.

Harry led her through other rooms, all just as packed. He gave her a running commentary as they slipped, hand-in-hand, through the crowds and past long lines of buffet tables at which masked guests queued for food.

“All right. See the lady by the fireplace in ostrich feathers? Caused rather a scandal with the prince, last year.”

“Don’t need to guess which prince,” said Kat.

“The Royals – always entertaining. And those chaps having a chinwag in the corner...” Kat looked across to where a group of elderly men in Arabian robes stood smoking cigars. “Some of our most illustrious generals, I do believe. Fella on the chaise longue in the cowboy outfit – American novelist, very popular. What’s his name, always forget. Oh look – out on the terrace there...”

Through the open French windows Kat caught a glimpse of a tight cluster of men and women in vivid colours, all shimmering Chinese silks and elaborate Indian headgear.

“Lavinia’s old Bloomsbury pals. Painters, writers, theatre directors, what have you. Hard to tell if they’re in fancy dress or not. Wonder who’ll be sleeping with whom by the end of the evening? We should run a lottery! Oh... and look.”

Kat followed his subtle nod to the door.

“Rare sighting of the Leader of the Opposition. Dressed as Robin Hood. Good lord, look at those tights. Too tight, to be sure.”

Kat laughed, then pointed to a pair of bishops in purple leaning against the door chatting earnestly.

“Those two?” she said.

“Actually,” said Harry, “they’re real bishops.”

“Gosh, I’ll have to mind my language.”

“Oh, don’t bother – off duty you wouldn’t believe the stories I’ve heard them tell.”

Kat heard some cheers from outside.

“Come on,” she said, taking his arm and heading for the French windows, “let’s go see what’s happening out there!”

If the interior of Mydworth Manor was extravagant, Kat could see from the terrace that the gardens and grounds were going to be even more amazing.

On the small lake behind the house, a pair of gondolas were ferrying couples to and from the little island with its white stone building. It was called a “folly”, she knew, though she didn’t have a clue why.

A classical string quartet played on the lawn, and an elegant soprano stood with them singing an aria.

“Puccini, if I’m not mistaken,” said Harry.

“One of my favourites,” said Kat. “First opera ever at The Met... Tosca. Oh – look there. That fire-eater—”

Harry stepped back as a young man, stripped to the waist, twirled into view, shooting flames into the evening sky. A small crowd gathered to watch him.

“Are there clowns and tight-rope walkers due soon? Going to be a long night, I think,” said Kat. “Maybe hit the buffet?”

“A very good idea,” said Harry.

As they turned to go back indoors, Kat caught a movement in a copse of trees beyond the terrace. A tall, hooded monk, in a long black robe, stood close by another man dressed – she guessed – as Henry VIII, his stomach bulging.

From the finger pointing, and head shakes, the two were clearly arguing, but their voices were low.

Something about the way they stood together made Kat pause for a second. Something... furtive... in their manner. Looking around. Checking.

Almost as if they were hiding.

“You all right?” said Harry.

“Sure,” said Kat, turning, and following. “Some of these costumes – crazy, aren’t they?”

*

“Your cook McLeod has outdone himself tonight, Aunt Lavinia,” said Harry, putting down his plate and wiping his hands on a napkin.

Kat looked across, to see Lavinia approaching the corner where she and Harry had perched together to eat.

She thought that amid the sea of cardinals, doges, and even more courtesans and pirates, Lavinia in her gown – a duchess perhaps? – took the cake. Waves of blue material shimmered in the glow of lamps and candles.

“I do hope so,” Lavinia said. “We’ve hired God knows how many extra kitchen staff to make sure things roll along. But–”

“Something wrong?” Kat said.

“Well. There are these absolutely darling little lobster things that should have arrived by now. I do want to keep my guests well fed.”

“Would you like me to go and check the kitchen?” Harry said. “I can be very discreet; they’ll never know I’m having a snoop!”

Kat was still getting used to seeing her husband as a pirate, his face hidden by a mask, which she had to admit rendered him even more attractive.

“Would you? I really must circulate among the throng.”

Lavinia reached out and touched Kat’s forearm. “Some of the people here? I don’t even know their names! But invite one from a certain set and you have to invite them all!”

Harry – about to make a run to the downstairs, where mayhem must be reigning in the kitchen – said, “You okay here, Kat? Just a minute or two. On your own?”

“Sure,” Kat said. “I’ll be fine. After all, I’m a courtesan.”

She saw both Harry and his aunt grin at this before hurrying away. She stood there, champagne flute in hand.

All alone.

Though here at Mydworth Manor she felt – in a way – that she was at home too.

She put down her plate and headed in the direction of the ballroom where the band was belting out one of her favourite Cole Porter numbers, What Is This Thing Called Love.

*

Harry threaded his way through the guests who filled the main corridor leading to the hallway, nearly bumping into a hooded monk who scurried past and headed up the stairs to the bedrooms.

Must be one of the London guests, staying over, thought Harry, as he watched the monk disappear along the landing above.

He turned down the corridor that led behind the staircase, dodging incoming footmen and maids, all madly bustling, and then headed down the stone steps to the kitchens.

Years ago, growing up here at Mydworth Manor, these subterranean corridors were his special haunts. The old cook (now long passed) had always been happy to find him a treat, or a mug of cocoa, or a warm corner by the stoves on a freezing winter’s day.

All that... helped him get through things.

He tipped his mask up – at least the regular staff would recognise him now and not be upset at the unannounced arrival of someone from “above stairs”.

Everywhere he looked there was furious activity: trays of food heading one way, great crates of dirty plates going the other for the kitchen porters to wash.

He sidestepped a pair of footmen carrying an impressive cold salmon on a silver salver, and peered through into the busy kitchen – just as a young man in an ill-fitting footman’s uniform bearing a massive bowl of oysters slipped on the wet floor... and fell badly, the bowl flying from his hands and smashing on the hard stone kitchen floor.

For a second there was utter silence. It was that loud! Then from every side, Harry saw kitchen staff race to the disaster – some to clear, some to clean.

One figure – the fearsome cook McLeod – picked up the young lad by the shoulder and dragged him to one side, an unintelligible stream of curses echoing around the kitchen.

“What’s the bloody point of you, laddie! I’ll kick your arse back to that boat you came off—”

Harry stepped forward and McLeod spun round, surprised to see Lady Lavinia’s nephew here in the kitchens.

“Sir Harry—”

“Sorry to interrupt, McLeod. But Lady Lavinia was wondering how the lobster hors-d’oeuvres were coming along.”

With a reluctant shake, McLeod let go of the footman and he sank back to the floor like an unwanted item of clothing.

“Aye, Sir Harry, should be ready. I’ll just away and see,” he said, leaving Harry and the young man together.

Harry lifted him up.

“You surviving?” said Harry, noting how nervous the lad seemed. Harry’s words brought a smile.

“Just about, sir.”

“Bark’s worse than his bite. You new?”

“Temporary, sir. Just for tonight. For the party.”

“Well, not to worry about that little accident. Happens all the time, night like this. Be forgotten before you know it. Probably already is. Though – I’d not recommend a repeat.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“McLeod will probably want to dock your pay – best give me your name, I’ll see you right tomorrow if he does.”

The young man frowned, seeming reluctant to answer.

Strange, thought Harry. Maybe moonlighting, nervous of getting caught?

“Come on now, lad. Won’t go any further,” he said.

“Um... Todd, sir. Charlie Todd.”

Harry saw Todd glance anxiously down at the floor – where a clasp knife poked out from beneath a cupboard.

“That yours?” said Harry.

Todd nodded, then reached down, picked it up and pocketed it quickly.

“Must have slipped out. When I fell.”

“All right, Todd,” said Harry, wondering why a kitchen porter found it necessary to carry a pocket knife.

Maybe for his work on a boat? That might fit. Still...

“Well, as you were.”

Harry nodded, and watched Todd return to the kitchen, a nervous glance back in Harry’s direction before he disappeared.

Strange, thought Harry. But then, everything’s a little strange tonight.

He turned and headed back to the party.

3. Dance the Night Away

Kat stood in the corner of the ballroom watching the jazz band – and the amazing singer.

The woman was dressed in a sleek red, low-cut evening gown, white silk gloves above her elbows, her whole performance sultry and slick.

Whoever she was, she was clearly a star, and as she sang she moved sinuously in front of the band. Kat could sense not only every man’s eye in the room upon her, but every woman’s as well.

Totally compelling.

As Kat watched, a tall man in the menacing black costume of – what? An undertaker? Executioner? – came up with the direct stride of someone who had been maybe waiting for just the right opportunity.

His mask was a hard white shell, formed into long cheeks and a grotesque hooked nose.

“Ah,” the man said beneath the mask, “you must be... the American girl, hmm?”

Kat saw the man’s dark eyes, but the rubbery protrusion completely covered the rest of his face. He could be anybody, but some instinct told her, he was not anyone she had met before.

She started to answer, finding the term he used repellent on a number of fronts.

“Oh, excuse my manners,” he said, leaning closer. “I meant... the new Lady Mortimer.”

He then gave a short bow that – in his sombre outfit – looked like it could have been sarcastic.

“And I have the pleasure of talking to... not a clown, I guess?” she said.

The man produced a small laugh.

“No. Not this evening. In fact, The Plague Doctor, at your service.”

“Remind me never to catch the plague,” said Kat.

The man laughed again, and raised his mask slightly: “Touché. Cyril Palmer, MP.” Then as if the “American girl” had just arrived on these shores, “Member of Parliament. In the cabinet actually. All such very dreary stuff to talk about, especially at a lively affair like this one.”

She wanted to inform the man that she wasn’t the one that brought up the subject of the cabinet and his role therein.

“Enjoying the band?” he said, looking across the ballroom at them.

“Extraordinary singer.”

“Isn’t she? Celine Dubois. Taking London’s theatres by storm this summer. Such a charming young thing. And that voice? Remarkable.”

“You know her?”

“As an MP,” he said with a shrug, “one tends to know anyone who’s anyone.”

“I’m sure,” said Kat, thinking about making her escape from this self-important boor.

“And your husband? Sir Harry? Old boy gone missing, has he? How very careless of him.”

Kat managed a polite smile.

“Just checking on the waves of seafood set to arrive.”

“Ah. Bit understaffed tonight, hmm? I always say, that if you deign to throw a ‘do’ such as this, you’d better—”

Then like a rescue boat arriving in the nick of time, shark circling, Harry – her pirate – reappeared.

“Sir Harry?” said Palmer.

Kat waited to see if Harry knew this man.

“Why, yes. And you? With the mask and all—”

And at that, Kat saw Cyril Palmer, MP, tilt up his bizarre mask with its lengthy curved nose.

“Ah. Palmer.” Harry stuck out a hand to shake.

“Been a while, eh, Sir Harry? Heard you were doing quite a bit of travelling. Acquiring the odd treasure, here and there, I imagine.”

And without Harry saying a word, she could tell, yes, Harry knew the man.

And didn’t particularly like him.

He managed a grin.

“Doing my best to keep the empire intact. So far-flung, you know? Perhaps you people in the government should look into consolidating the damn thing.”

Kat didn’t see a matching smile on Palmer’s face. She guessed: jokes about the “empire” were not everyone’s cup of tea.

“I was just telling your lovely um... Lady Mortimer here, about my work in parliament. Busy, busy, as they say.”

Harry fired a look at Kat.

“I heard your star is in ascent. Rumblings of a run for prime minister?”

“Oh, don’t believe everything you hear. Though with the way things are being messed up these days, no doubt a hand like mine at the tiller could—”

“Oh, so sorry—” Harry said, cutting him off. “I see some old friends. Been a lifetime. Must catch up, introduce them to Lady Mortimer.”

“Why, yes, of course.”

And without allowing the now stumbling Cyril Palmer to continue, Harry guided her away.

*

“Sorry, about that, Kat. Parties like this, you can never tell what piece of flotsam or jetsam you might bump into.”

“Got the feeling he waited until I was alone.”

“Really? Now why ever would a man like that wait till the most beautiful woman in the room was alone to make his move?”

Kat laughed and affected the accent of a southern belle. “Why I do declare, Sir Harry.”

“Now whatever is that supposed to mean!” he said, laughing as – with a tray soaring by – he scooped up two more glasses of champagne.

“Chin-chin,” he said as they toasted. “I’m not sure what that means either.”

Kat’s eye had been drifting to the fireplace.

It was the Henry VIII that she’d noticed in the garden, and next to him – Kat guessed from her days attending mass at St Brendan’s – was a Venetian altar boy.

The masked monarch was gesturing, pointing at the people standing by him, who all listened intently as if his words were important.

“Harry. Don’t turn and look right now. But you see Henry VIII over there, holding court?”

And she saw Harry slowly turn, a quick look, and then back to Kat.

“Him? Oh yes, very important man. Horatio Forsyth. Publishes one of London’s biggest papers, The Record.”

“And the choirboy?”

“Ha, anything but. Name’s Quiller – gossip columnist. Exposés, and all that. Scourge of half the people in this room.”

“Nasty,” said Kat.

“Very, so I hear.”

“Quite a crowd around them though?”

“Well, with a newspaper empire behind you, people tend to listen even if what you say is complete nonsense!”

Kat took another sip of champagne, enjoying this game of observations.

As she again scanned the room, she saw Celine Dubois at the centre of another group, smoking a cigarette in a holder.

“What do you think of our singer? Striking outfit, and seems to have a real fan following. Least with the men.”

“Hmm... let me see,” said Harry. “Ah, yes! The beautiful Celine Sawyer.”

“Not Dubois?”

“Think that’s her stage name. Maiden name, probably. She’s married to the cinema actor—?”

“Nick Sawyer? Really? I’ve seen his films. Robin Hood, yes?”

“Yes, that’s the one, ever the swashbuckler. In fact, I do believe that’s him, over there by the drinks.”

Kat looked across to the long table of champagne glasses, staffed by busy footmen.

A slender and rather handsome man – dressed as Valentino in a bullfighter’s cape – was leaning precariously against the table, knocking back a glass of champagne.

“Said star looks rather wobbly,” said Kat. “Hope he doesn’t try and swing on the chandeliers.”

“Indeed,” said Harry. “Word is he’s hit a bit of a rough patch. What with the advent of the talkies. I’ll take you over, introduce you, if you fancy an autograph.”

“Lady Mortimer, Sir Harry—”

Kat turned to see Benton, Lady Fitzhenry’s butler, holding a tray, a role she knew he must find beneath him.

“Ah yes. You see, Kat, when I went downstairs old McLeod had things well under control. And these, Benton, are-?”

“Lobster cheese canapés, Sir Harry,” said Benton, trying and failing to hide his discomfort.

“Really?” Then to Kat. “Shall we?”

And she reached up and with one bite she thought, Lavinia’s cook may be a gruff no-nonsense Scot, but if he can whip up dainties like this, well he is some chef.

Benton sailed away to other guests.

“Harry, does Benton ever break that façade? I’m getting the feeing it’s been quite a while since that man has actually smiled.”

“Smile? Well – ha – we tend to frown on people in service doing such things. Do wish he’d return with some more of those lobster things though. Quite tasty, and I’m sure my eating’s not keeping up with my drinking.”

Just then the band struck up again.

“Oh, Harry! Let’s dance, shall we? It’s been ages.”

“Love to,” said Harry, putting down his glass.

And Kat took Harry’s arm and led him to the ballroom.

4. Death in Venice

Two hours later, Harry and Kat spilled out of the ballroom into one of the lounges, laughing and exhausted.

“Say – let’s find somewhere quiet for a minute,” said Harry, and they wandered down the corridor. “You’ve worn me out.”

As they passed the billiard room, Kat glanced in. A group of men were playing billiards. Others stood and smoked cigars, watching.

She recognised Palmer, mask now off, standing, chalking a cue. He nodded recognition to her, then crouched to play a shot.

Harry carried on, and she caught up, past other drifting guests, and entered one of the big lounges.

Kat saw the room was nearly empty – most of the guests still dancing to the amazing band. Outside was now dark, apart from the tall flickering flares that lined the edge of the terrace.

“The look on those generals’ faces on the dance floor,” said Harry, picking up a bottle of champagne and a couple of glasses and steering Kat towards an empty sofa. “That was something close to real fear.”

“The Black Bottom,” said Kat, leaning on him while she slipped her shoes back on. “My speciality.”

“Don’t know how I kept up with you – but always great fun trying. You must—”

But then the French windows flew open, banging against the wall like a gunshot. And though in the ballroom the band played on, the whole crowd singing “Tiptoe Through the Tulips”, here in this room, the bubbly air of the party quickly changed.

As two people, one wearing a cavalier hat and a black cape, holding the hand of a lithe woman in an orange gown, appeared in the doorway. They took a breathless moment, before yelling, as loud as they could, for all to hear:

“Someone’s down at the lake! Not moving!”

For a moment, the other guests in the lounge just gazed at the couple as if they didn’t quite understand the words. Kat understood the implication straight away.

Harry turned to her.

“We’d better go look,” he said, his voice suddenly coloured by alarm.

To which Kat answered faster than he could dash away, “Come on.”

*

Together, they ran down the sloping lawn towards the ornamental lake.

Harry saw the gondolas were all now moored by the flare-lit jetty, those flares the only light down here, away from the house, apart from a half-moon above.

Even in the light from that moon, he could see the shape of a man lying face down on the grass by the grotto, itself on the very edge of the water.

He and Kat reached the man together, Kat as ever taking over, crouching down, checking for pulse, breathing – any signs of life.

A year on the Western Front as a nursing assistant, the making of her, he knew.

He helped her to flip the man over.

“Anything?” he said.

He saw her shake her head and sit back on her haunches.

“Who is it?” she said.

Harry gently lifted the man’s head so he could see.

Clearly a guest – in monk’s dark robes and sandals. But no mask.

A tall man, in his late sixties perhaps.

“I don’t know,” said Harry. “Though I think I spotted him at the party.”

“Me too,” said Kat. “He was having an argument with Henry VIII.”

“Whoever he is – he’s dead.”

*

Harry had – at Sergeant Timms’s request – asked all the guests who had filtered down to the lakeside, right near the stone grotto that Harry loved as a child, to return to Mydworth Manor.

Until the only people near the body were his Aunt Lavinia, Kat, Timms and Constable Thomas.

And Cyril Palmer.

Because the man on the ground, mask nowhere to be seen, and monk’s cowl removed, was – as Palmer muttered, his voice shaken – one Wilfred Carmody.

Palmer’s long-time assistant and secretary, having loyally worked for him for decades.

Dr Creighton Bedell, the town’s lone doctor for as long as Harry could remember, had crouched down close, stethoscope out.

The venerable doctor leaving no stone unturned.

Then that fateful shake of his head confirming what Harry thought was clearly obvious.

“The man is, I am afraid, dead.”

Kat gave Harry’s hand a squeeze. With her shoulders exposed, and the night air turning chilly, Harry took off his pirate’s cape and wrapped it around her.

“Thanks,” Kat said quietly.

“The poor chap,” Palmer said, stepping away, as if now thinking it best to keep his distance from his loyal aide.

“I told Carmody... you don’t have to come to the party. With his condition and all.”

Timms walked over, tilted his head back as if the angle would give a better look. Constable Thomas’s torch was still aimed at the body and the doctor, who looked like he might have a struggle standing up.

“‘Condition’ you say, Mr Palmer?”

“His heart, sergeant. Been worse lately. Those funny old rumblings.”

From near the corpse, Dr Bedell added, “Palpitations?”

“Yes. But dear Carmody, wanted to be at my side. So bloody loyal.”

Bedell strained to get to a standing position, placing one hand on a knee for leverage.

The mud here was a good half-inch deep – shoes ruined.

“Officer,” Bedell said, “please, if you would be so kind as to aim your torch at Mr Carmody’s face.”

Constable Thomas did so, and Harry saw something that he had seen before.

“Note that bit of colour... at the cheeks... around the mouth?” said Bedell. “Purplish blue. All the signs of drastic heart failure. The man probably came out here, seeking some air. Then, well, it was his time.”

At this, Lavinia took some muddy steps closer.

“Harry. Do you think I should send everyone away?”

Harry looked at Kat, a certain absurd quality to all of them standing out here, by the lake, gathered around an old man felled by his heart.

But before he could answer: “Lady Lavinia, Constable Thomas and I will see to Mr Carmody here,” said Timms. If that suits you, Mr Palmer.”

“Of course, sergeant,” said Palmer. “You’ll need to let me check Mr Carmody’s pockets too, lest there might be any papers on him. Government business, you know.”

“Yes sir,” said Timms. Then, turning to Lavinia, “I think m’lady, there’s no reason at all to discomfort your guests.”

Lavinia still looked at Harry. Waiting on his response.

“Makes sense, Aunt Lavinia. Things like this happen. Party still going strong. So yes, we can soldier on.” He looked down to the body in the mud. “Raise a glass to the fallen.”

Lavinia nodded, perhaps – Harry thought – relieved. Would be more of a mess to abruptly end things than let the party run on, albeit it at a lower boil.

And then, as they were about to walk back to the manor house, he turned.

To see Kat. Standing quietly, close to the body, looking down. Then around – at the house, the lake, the grotto.

What’s my Kat thinking? he wondered.

5. A Morning Visit from Aunt Lavinia

Harry was still trying to figure out how the various bits and pieces of the percolator came together, when he heard a knock on the front door.

The coffee was much needed on a morning like this, but the knocking was much more demanding than the recalcitrant coffee maker.

He hurried to the door, his dark blue robe open over pyjamas; the belt somehow gone astray, surely to be located later.

“Yes, yes,” he said, opening the door a little and peering round – annoyed that the challenge of the coffee pot had to be deferred – to see his Aunt Lavinia, dressed in slacks, a crisp cream-coloured blouse, her hair pinned up, no hat.

Somewhat different from whatever Venetian she was supposed to be the night before.

“Aunt Lavinia. I thought, after last night, and all the aftermath, we wouldn’t be seeing you stir till noon.”

She made a small smile at that.

And as if to prod – Harry perhaps seeming sluggish though it was hardly the crack of dawn – she said, “Mind if I come in, my dear?”

“Oh, of course. I mean, absolutely.”

He pulled the door open, adding: “Would you like some tea? Think we have some biscuits from yesterday, and—”

At that, he saw Kat emerge from their bedroom, drawn by the sound. Her silky gown and robe, pulled tight. Altogether fetching, he thought, even the morning after.

“Aunt Lavinia. Good morning.”

“Yes, yes. Harry, now, do see to that tea. And Kat, I’m so glad you are up. Both of you need to hear what I have to say.”

Harry still hadn’t moved towards any tea preparations. This visit did not bode well.

“Something else happen last night, Aunt Lavinia? I mean after we left? Seemed that post-Carmody’s collapse the party was still going full steam?”

“Yes. Well, bring me that tea and I shall tell you.”

*

Kat was pleased Lavinia wanted to share her story with her. Harry’s aunt seemed to be – albeit slowly – warming to Kat.

From the look on Lavinia’s face, it must be serious.

She sat down in a kitchen chair while Harry wrestled with the electric kettle, a device he was still getting used to. She also noted the dismembered parts of the percolator that, with coffee not being such a priority in this country, he had not yet learned to master.

“Aunt Lavinia, did everyone stay up terribly late?”

“Oh yes, Kat. I mean, not unexpected. Benton and the staff were good enough to stay at their posts until the last house guest retired. The locals stumbled back into town I imagine, while those heading back to London of course left much earlier. I intend to reconsider the whole ‘house guest’ thing. Such an effort! Must always sort them a bedroom, and one for their staff if they bring any! Feed them on and on, like noisy chicks in a nest.”

At that, Lavinia made a small smile. “So much work for such a little party.”

Kat smiled back. She had learned that Lavinia – who had raised Harry since he was a small boy – was not unlike her. Strong opinions, but backed with a steely resolve to get things done, and more importantly, have a good time doing it, no matter what people might say.

She guessed that attitude was becoming more common in this country, just as back in the States, independent women were popping up all over the place.

Good thing too.

The steady whistle from the nearby kitchen signalled that Harry had the tea well in hand.

He soon appeared with a steaming tea pot, three cups and saucers, and a plate of cookies, biscuits, that Kat hoped hadn’t turned too crumbly since yesterday.

“There!” Harry said. “Got the milk and sugar too. Aren’t I the domesticated one? Now, Lavinia, while it is always a pleasure to have you visit us, perhaps... to the reason?”

Kat saw Harry’s aunt take a deep breath.

“Yes, well – this is what happened...”

*

“Rather later than planned, well after midnight, I had the maids arrange things for that card-hunting game.”

“Oh, that one. Good fun. Usually.”

Kat’s confused look to him prompted, “Oh, you see, tradition has it, always a game or two at the end of a party. This one involves a deck of cards, the individual cards secreted around the house.”

“Some outside too,” Lavinia added.

“And people search high and low, avoiding private areas, of course. Then they can get into teams, and match cards to see—”

“Yes, yes, Harry we don’t need all the rules for it. And the game is not the important thing.”

“Something happened during the game?”

Lavinia fixed her nephew with a stare. “Did you perhaps overdo it a bit last night, Harry?”

“Never a morning person, dear Aunt. So—?”

“Right.” And again, she looked straight at Kat. “I wasn’t playing the game, just overseeing, when that newspaper publisher—”

“Horatio Forsyth,” Harry added. “Henry the Eighth, if I remember correctly.”

“Yes. Came up to me. Pulled me aside. I mean, literally. His eyes wide. Well, I have seen fear before. And in those eyes... definitely a healthy dose of fear.”

Kat noted that Lavinia’s words had produced a sudden change in her husband. Lips set, eyes locked on her.

“He walked me – almost dragged me – to the alcove that leads down to the servants’ staircase. And then—”

“Go on,” said Harry.

“He said he had something important to tell me about Mr Carmody’s death.”

Kat caught Harry’s quick glance across at her.

Serious. Concerned.

“Well, you can imagine how that made me feel,” said Lavinia.

And Kat could. One night in Istanbul, she had barely fallen asleep when there was a noise. Someone in her apartment, perhaps having gained entry from the wide-open window, the night hot.

Kat had got up then, heart pounding. Aware that there was someone there. That there was now something to fear.

But with the flick of a light, the intruder, knowing that he had been discovered, stumbled out again.

And for the next night, Kat made sure her Colt revolver was just tucked under her bed, a quick and easy grab should she need it.

“Aunt Lavinia, what exactly did Mr Forsyth say? What was he afraid of?” Kat asked.

“He said that — and these are his precise words – whoever did that to Carmody knew that he and Carmody were up to something together.”

“I see,” Harry said.

“He also said that whoever did it will be coming for him next!”

“And what was the connection?” said Kat

Lavinia nodded. Took a sip of tea. Then...

*

“Of course, I stopped the man right there. Told him, with all these people staying in my house, best I didn’t know whatever it was he was referring to. Then I mentioned, well you two. Your... special talents in this area.”

“And the old newspaper man was fine with that? You telling us?”

“Yes. He definitely did not want the police involved, that’s for sure.”

“People rarely do, I’m beginning to find.”

“Lavinia,” Kat said, “you’d like us to look into this?”

At that Lavinia stood up.

“Please. I mean Forsyth may have some dreadful secret. Of course, to any sane person, it would seem that Carmody, with his heart history, simply keeled over. Quod erat demonstrandum.”

“Still got your Latin, I see,” Harry said, now standing as well. Then: “I think – once we’ve had a bite to eat – we’ll be glad to start poking around in things.”

“I knew I could rely on you two. Now, I imagine people up at the house will soon start stirring for breakfast. One or two are already out riding. Then I gather there’s something of a tennis tournament scheduled.”

She took Kat’s hand.

“You play, yes, Kat? Perhaps you will join us? Might prove useful.”

Kat smiled. “Certainly.”

“Let’s not forget that I, too, know how to wield a racquet,” Harry said.

And at that finally Lavinia managed a relieved smile.

“Of course you do, dear Harry. I must tell you both,” she said, as she turned headed for the front door, “you agreeing to do this, why already it’s a tremendous load off my shoulders.”

“Glad to help,” Harry said, hurrying to open the door for his aunt.

“Now back to my house full of people. Still so many people.”

And Kat watched as Lavinia made her way round the side of the Dower House to the winding country path that connected the two homes.

Could have taken the car, Kat thought.

But then... people noticing, asking questions.

This way, nice and tidy and secret.

One savvy woman.

Then as Harry shut the door.

“What do you think, Sir Harry?”

“I think – Lady Mortimer – we may just have another case to solve.”

“A case of... murder?”

“That remains to be seen. Now please, can your more experienced hands wrestle the percolator into submission? And then we’ll get cracking.”

6. Footsteps on the Grass

Kat reached out and stopped Harry just as he was about to open the grand front door to Mydworth Manor.

“Harry, how about – before we talk to Forsyth – we go take a look, down where the grotto is? I mean, last night no one was thinking anything. Now—”

“In the light of day, a hint of suspicion in the air?”

“Exactly!”

“Lead on.”

They walked around the house and took the gravel path down to where a lush green carpet of grass hugged close to the small lake, just north of the main grounds, leading to the grotto.

*

Harry knelt down, looking at the churned-up mud at the water’s edge made by all the people who had stomped about here last night.

He looked up at Kat. “Going to take Grayer quite a bit of work to get this patch looking like it hasn’t been turned into cow pasture.”

He saw Kat looking around, to the east where the lake ended and the grass trailed off into the rising hills where Harry had loved to play when he was young.

He and his pals would run around, playing at being soldiers as they hid behind giant rocks and climbed trees – not knowing that, for nearly all of them, the real thing was not too far away.

And that only a few would return.

Kat turned and looked back to where they had come from.

“You, m’lady, are having some thoughts, yes?”

She nodded. “That I am. I mean, this grotto, it’s a long way from the house.”

“Yes, I suppose it is. Bit of a refuge. Sit there, book of poetry in your lap. Rather peaceful, don’t you think?”

“Yes, but that’s just it.”

Kat, seemingly unconcerned that her leather laced-up boots were turning a darker brown as they sank into the mud, took a step towards him.

“Go on,” said Harry.

Another step. And now with the late morning sun hitting his wife squarely in her face, making each angle stand out, her blue eyes glistening, she faced him directly and said, “That’s just it. Carmody, maybe not feeling all that well, wants some air. But why on earth...?”

“Walk this far?”

“Precisely. It’s a long walk from the party in the dark. Especially when you’re not feeling well.”

“Doesn’t add up.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Suspicious?”

At that Kat shrugged. “Curious. Odd. No easy explanation.”

“Well, we are a little early in this investigation.”

“Is that what it is?”

“Time will tell, my dear, but... hang on...”

“What?”

Harry had noticed something, the sun at a high enough angle that he could make out the ripples and lines in the churned-up mud.

“Do step carefully for a minute. But follow me.”

He stepped over the mess of jumbled footprints to where he saw just one set of footprints. He stopped and Kat followed suit.

“Harry, what is it?”

He pointed where the footprints led away from the muddy jumble.

“Notice anything?”

Kat paused, right at his shoulder. “These prints here. One set. Heading off in that direction, away from us. Not directly back to the house.”

“Unlike the other ones,” he said.

“Yes. So who would do that, with the body on the ground, and the police on the scene? No one could just walk away, unnoticed. Someone would have seen them. Don’t you think?”

Harry stood up.

“That I do. Which means–”

“The footsteps were made before anyone discovered the body of Wilfred Carmody.”

“Makes sense,” he said. “But I’d wager if we follow the prints, they’ll disappear as soon as we get away from the mud, and onto the grass. Then... who knows where they went?”

He watched Kat scan the lake, the grass, then back to the grotto.

“It might also mean,” she said, “that when Carmody came down here, he was not alone.”

“He came down here to meet somebody.”

“Exactly,” Kat said. “You know, for a warm morning, that thought just gave me quite a chill.”

“Me too, I must admit. Though quite how you give someone a heart attack on cue...”

“Can be done,” said Kat, her face now serious. “So I’ve heard.”

Harry nodded, knowing that Kat, in her years working for the American government, had experience of the darker side of the diplomatic arts.

As indeed had he, in service with His Majesty’s Diplomatic Corps.

“In which case, perhaps I should phone Dr Bedell, ask him to take a discreet look at the body.”

“And order an autopsy.”

“That too,” said Harry, “but in the meantime, worth a careful inspection here for signs of anything untoward.”

“I agree,” said Kat. “You know, I just remembered something from last night. Not sure it’s important.”

“I’m sure it is,” said Harry.

He looked at Kat, the morning sun catching her hair.

This conversation so incongruous.

“Just after we arrived, I saw Forsyth arguing with someone out on the lawn. Someone in a monk’s robe, like Carmody’s.”

“Funny you say that,” said Harry. “I saw a monk in a hurry on the staircase last night. Course, always hard to tell one monk from another. And in a mask, well...”

“Perfect set-up to kill somebody, wouldn’t you say? Masks, disguises...”

“Indeed,” he said, wiping his muddy shoes against the grass. “Well this idea of yours – coming down here – jolly productive. Shall we see the state of play up at the house?”

“By all means.”

And Harry walked beside Kat.

For now they were silent, though he guessed she had to be thinking the same as him.

What on earth actually happened last night?

Had Carmody been murdered?

If so, why?

And how?

*

Kat followed Harry up the steps onto the rear terrace of Mydworth Manor, and through the French windows into the house.

She could see that the staff had already been busy cleaning and tidying. Last night’s Venetian decorations were all gone, and the floors looked freshly swept and polished.

Maids and footmen – they had to be weary! – still scurried back and forth, carrying trays – presumably for those guests still in their bedrooms.

She and Harry walked down the corridor into the big living room. A handful of overnight guests sat on sofas and armchairs – some stood in the open French windows.

Everyone was now in their normal weekend clothes – Venetian costumes gone.

She saw Benton delivering drinks on a tray to one couple she did recognise, standing just outside on the terrace: Celine Dubois and her husband Douglas Sawyer.

As Benton came back through the living room, Harry nodded to him.

“Benton.”

“Sir Harry?”

“People still having breakfast?”

“Yes, sir, though many of her ladyship’s guests have preferred breakfast in their rooms.”

“I can imagine why, eh? Mr Palmer down yet?”

“Indeed yes, sir, he was one of the first to arise. I gather he is out riding sir.”

“Nothing gets in the way of an Englishman and his morning ride,” said Harry.

“What about Mr Forsyth?” said Kat.

“Still in his room, I believe, Lady Mortimer. He was one of the last to take to his bed last night, what with the... er... unfortunate incident by the lake.”

“Of course,” said Kat. “Seems he was pretty upset.” Then a thought: “I wonder – don’t suppose you know if anyone in particular left very muddy shoes out last night to be cleaned?”

“Muddy shoes, m’lady? It is more a question of who didn’t do so. The lakeside entertainments, while being of course a marvellous diversion, have taken their toll on the carpets and footwear throughout the house.”

So much for identifying the mystery footprints this morning, thought Kat.

“Well, we won’t delay you much more, Benton,” said Harry. “Just one last question...” Kat saw him nod to the Sawyers through the French windows. “That a brandy you were just pouring for Mr Sawyer?”

“It was indeed, sir,” said Benton, heading back towards the kitchens.

“The old eye-opener,” said Harry. “Thought Sawyer looked two sheets to the wind last night.”

“Me too,” said Kat. “Know what? Might be a long wait for Forsyth to emerge, why don’t we start talking to people, see if anyone knows anything?”

“Good idea. Fancy the singer and the silent movie star?”

“You know me too well. How about you?”

“Think I’ll take a quiet peek at Carmody’s room.”

“Really?” said Kat.

“I was thinking – remember last night Palmer mentioned important papers? Carmody’s been Palmer’s private secretary for years. Could be that Palmer trusted him with information that might have put him in harm’s way.”

“Government secrets, you mean? Always possible. Though perhaps political secrets are more likely,” she said.

“Good point – Palmer running for Number Ten this autumn. Even people on his own side of the House might be interested in what he’s up to.”

“Journalists too,” said Kat.

“Newspaper barons, even...” said Harry, smiling.

“Maybe a good idea then to search Carmody’s room before Palmer’s back from his ride,” said Kat. “Meanwhile, I’m going to grab a coffee and get the latest gossip from Hollywood.”

“Think I got the raw deal there,” said Harry, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “Love you.”

Kat watched him head off to look for Benton, and then went looking for a coffee.

Maybe there was more to Mr Carmody than we thought.

7. The Singer and the Star

Harry walked quietly along the second-floor corridor until he reached Carmody’s room – one of the small singles up here not allocated to servants.

He tapped quietly on the door – though he knew it was unoccupied. Then he took from his pocket the spare key he’d got from Mrs Woodfine, the housekeeper, slipped it in the lock – and entered.

Mrs Woodfine had assured him that absolutely no one had been in here since Carmody himself.

“