Murder by Misunderstanding Read online

  Hazel brushed past him and headed for the front door with as much pride as she could muster. Grabbing her coat from the butler, who had scrambled to retrieve it at her hasty departure, she prayed Duffy would have the car ready and waiting on the front steps so she didn’t embarrass herself further by twiddling her thumbs while Inspector Gibson watched.

  Chapter Three

  “May I take your coat, madam?” Hazel’s butler, Shrewsbury, asked once she’d arrived back at Hastings Manor again. “Wise choice to dress warmly. It’s chilly out, and you wouldn’t want to catch cold.”

  “Yes, thank you.” She stopped in the main hall and allowed him to help her out of the heavy, fur-trimmed wool. Shrewsbury, now in his midfifties, had been hired by Charles and now looked after her like a fussy mother hen since her husband’s passing. She’d often wondered if Shrewsbury’s duties had run to far more than that of a normal butler—what with all his unusual associates stopping by the house at all hours of the day and night and his mysterious trips to visit family members he’d never mentioned before—but the man was an excellent butler, and Hazel felt completely safe and secure with him in the house, so she never questioned him.

  “Another murder, madam?” he asked as he hung her coat in the side cupboard then faced her, his grey brows knit above his disapproving stare. There was, however, a slight smile on his lips, which took away any true censure. Given how often he helped her, the wily butler enjoyed her cases as much as she did, she was sure.

  Hazel pulled off her gloves and handed them to him, leaving her cloche hat on for now. It was such a pretty burgundy shade, and she did feel so young and pretty in it. Even Lady Wakefield had commented on it, which made her happy. “If you must know, yes. After visiting with the Wakefields, I do believe there’s a matter of interest in the story.”

  “Very good, madam.” Shrewsbury gave her a slight bow then walked with her into the sitting room. “I heard how you helped Mrs. Pembroke this summer while I was tending to my brother. Charles would’ve been proud, ma’am.”

  “Thank you.” Hazel’s heart pinched from his compliment. Coming from the staid, enigmatic butler, it meant a lot. She took a seat in her favorite chair by the window once more. The beveled glass looked so pretty this time of day, the sun’s rays filtering through the edges like a prism, casting rainbows across the floor. “Could you fetch Alice and Maggie for me, please?”

  “Certainly, madam,” Shrewsbury said, bowing once more before leaving the tiny room.

  While she waited, Hazel straightened the pages of her latest manuscript and wondered if Charles would have indeed been proud of her.

  She used to help him on his cases, and it had been something she really enjoyed. Those investigations also helped her with her novels. As did her husband. In fact, her dear Charles had been such a big help to her, that with this last book—her first without him—she’d been afraid she might not be able to complete it on her own.

  As she stacked the last of the papers, Hazel smiled. She’d done it, though, finished the book. And by doing so had gained more confidence in her detecting skills. Plus, Shrewsbury had been right. She had helped solve Myrtle Pembroke’s case. Yes. Charles would have been proud of her, and maybe, just maybe, he was looking on her with a smile.

  “You wished to see us, madam?” Maggie asked as she and Alice stood in the sitting room doorway.

  “Yes.” Hazel waved them in. “Please have a seat.”

  Once the ladies had settled themselves on the settee in front of her, Hazel continued. Both wore starched white aprons and matching white caps, though Alice’s dress underneath was blue, while Maggie’s was a light-green cotton. “As you know, I went to Farnsworth Abbey this afternoon to inquire about poor Doris. And I’m afraid that there may be some truth to Maggie’s assertion that this wasn’t a suicide.”

  The young maid gasped. “So you do think she was murdered?”

  “I’m not sure I’m ready to go that far yet, Maggie.” Hazel reached down to stroke Dickens, who’d slinked into the room as they talked. The large silver-beige cat stretched into her stroking, back arched and tail high as he purred loudly. “But there are some suspicious circumstances to the story that warrant further investigation, I think.”

  Dickens ran across the space separating Hazel’s chair from the settee and immediately began twining himself around Alice’s ankles. Absently, the older cook bent to pet him, frowning. “You’re going to investigate the death then, madam?” Alice asked.

  “With Maggie’s permission, of course.” She smiled at her maid then gave Alice a look. “Seems as if Dickens is growing on you.”

  The cook straightened fast, scoffing and clasping her hands in her lap. “He’s all right, I suppose. As long as he stays out of my kitchen.”

  “You really think there might be something suspicious going on with the Wakefields?” Maggie asked, her eyes wide with interest. “Something involving my poor Doris?”

  “Perhaps,” Hazel said. “I saw some discrepancies while at Farnsworth Abbey and think it can’t hurt to investigate them just to rule out any foul play.”

  “Then yes,” Maggie said, her voice confident. “Doris is an old friend and deserves to have her name cleared.”

  “There is one more thing, though.” Hazel leaned forward, her tone serious as she met her maid’s gaze directly. “If I’m going to do this for you, I need you to be nothing but frank with me.”

  Maggie nodded. “Of course, madam.”

  “Good. Now tell me, was your friend Doris…loose with her attentions?”

  “Loose?” The maid frowned.

  “You know, did she flirt with a lot of men? Allow them certain…liberties?”

  Cheeks flushing bright red, Maggie shook her head, her brown eyes wide with shock. “Oh no, madam. No. Doris was happy and fun loving, yes, but she was a good girl, Mrs. Martin. I swear.”

  “You and Doris were close then recently?” Hazel asked. “Spent a lot of time together?”

  Maggie lowered her gaze, frowning. “Well, not exactly, madam. I mean we were thick as thieves back when we were young girls, but of late we’ve grown apart because of work and such. But even if I haven’t seen her lately, I still know Doris wasn’t loose. She would never do such things.”

  Hazel admired the girl’s loyalty to her friend but wasn’t entirely convinced. After all, no one wanted to believe awful things about their friends or family members. Maggie might believe her friend’s reputation was above reproach, but that didn’t make it true. In fact, Mrs. Crosby had seemed just as convinced of the opposite. That, along with the other inconsistencies in the stories, had Hazel certain there was more to the story of Doris’s demise than a simple suicide. After all, in matters of love, passions could run high both in and out of the bedroom.

  “All right, then. Thank you, ladies.” Hazel smiled as the two women stood and headed toward the door. “I’ll begin to look into things at my earliest convenience.”

  “Thank you, madam.” Maggie curtsied and left.

  “Dinner should be ready shortly, madam,” Alice said, bowing slightly.

  After the ladies left, Hazel patted her lap, and Dickens jumped up onto her knees. He sat with perfect posture, staring deeply into her eyes, his icy-blue gaze both wise and wary. She stroked his head and smiled. “Looks like you were right, Dickens. I do believe murder is afoot.”

  Instead of working in the sitting room for the rest of the afternoon, Hazel decided to go up to the third floor of Hastings Manor and work from the sunny little writing room she’d set up there. It had a nice view outside over the gabled rooftop and parapets, much like the window Doris had fallen from. Dickens trailed behind her, grooming his paws while she chose from her selection of fountain pens for the day’s tasks. A fresh buzz of inspiration bubbled inside her, and she wanted to harness it for her next book. Nothing like a real-life murder to get the creative juices flowing.

  Picking up a Dubonnet-red Esterbrook, to match her jaunty cloche hat, Hazel settled in b
ehind her small desk with her journal to begin plotting. After a minute, though, she switched pens to her old standby—a celluloid green Parker Duofold. It felt like a cherished friend in her ink-stained fingertips, and soon the ideas began to flow out onto paper. She sketched out a new location, new characters, a new world for them to operate within. This was her favorite part, when everything was crisp and new and the possibilities were endless.

  Dickens jumped up onto the windowsill beside her to watch her write.

  “Let’s see, Dickens. What do we know so far about this Wakefield case?” She turned away from her novel’s notes and started a new blank page, scribbling the name down at the top of the sheet, while Dickens meowed. “How about we start with conversations, eh?”

  The cat flicked his plush tail.

  “Right. Lord Wakefield seemed unaffected by the death, more interested in reading his newspaper than comforting his family,” she wrote, talking aloud to her cat companion as she did so. “That’s not unusual for a man of his stature, though. People of that station in life are normally so callous toward the staff. Not like us, eh.” She reached over to scratch Dickens behind his ears. “We treat ours like family, don’t we?”

  Smiling, she went back to writing and musing. “But what if Lord Wakefield’s indifference is too indifferent? Maybe he really isn’t close with his family at all. Maybe he seeks his companionship elsewhere. Maybe he was more familiar with Doris than he let on…” She tapped her pen against her lips, frowning. “If Doris really was loose, as Mrs. Crosby insinuated, then perhaps she was having an affair with Lord W.”

  Hazel suppressed a shudder. The man was no looker, that much was certain, but to each their own. She glanced over at Dickens, who was watching her with a lazy, half-lidded gaze. “Plenty of men in his position take advantage of the help, and Lord W is rich. If Doris was a gold-digger, she might have thought he could help her financially.”

  The cat purred, as if in agreement.

  “And where was he when she fell? Lady Wakefield told me he stayed in his study instead of running upstairs like everyone else. Could he really be that unconcerned about the goings-on in the house that he didn’t care?” Hazel shook her head. “Lady Wakefield, on the other hand, seemed upset enough for them both. And even more concerned about Doris’s death tarnishing her family’s name. Seems she cares more about appearances than actual facts surrounding the case. Their family tree might extend back to the Tudors, but a woman died on their premises. That needs to count for something.”

  Dickens yawned then flopped over on his side for a nap.

  “And what about the twins? They seemed upset too.” She remembered them huddled together on the settee in the drawing room, and memories of them as smaller children, always sticking up for one another, came to mind. She and Charles had gone over there for dinner a few times right after they’d been married. “Of course, they are twins too, which naturally makes them closer.”

  She toed off her shoes and stretched her legs out under the desk, relaxing. She’d already filled up two pages with notes, front and back, and started on a third. “And what about the servants? Maybe one of them is behind it all. Mrs. Crosby, the housekeeper, sounded like she disapproved of Doris. Her assessment of Doris is in direct contrast to what Maggie’s told me about her friend, though. I need to get back in there and speak with some of the others to get their side of the story. Not sure how yet, though.”

  The cat meowed again, and Hazel glanced over, the view of the rooftop leading her to think about poor Doris again. Such a horrible way to die. Hazel was no sissy when it came to heights, but thirty-plus feet was a long way to fall. And there was something else that bothered her too. “According to Mrs. Crosby, the scream came from the third floor. Which doesn’t make sense if it was a suicide. Who jumps on purpose and then screams?”

  Hazel got up and moved Dickens gently aside before opening the window and looking down. The cat meowed loudly again and scrambled off the sill, leaving a scratch on the wood in his haste. She gave a short laugh and watched as the cat hurried from the room, as if in a panic. Apparently, an open window this high up was too treacherous for his taste. Still, Hazel stared at the mark he’d left behind on the sill, the gouge reminding her of the scratches on the outside ledge at Farnsworth Abbey. She turned back around and leaned her hips against the sill.

  “What if those were marks from Doris trying to hold on?” She mused out loud to herself. “Doris’s nails could have left those marks too, if that were the case. And if she was trying to hold on and save herself, that makes jumping highly unlikely. But was it an accident then?”

  She plopped back down into her seat, scowling. With Doris’s body now under police custody, looking at the maid’s fingers for signs of trauma would be virtually impossible. If only her Charles were still alive, she could ask him to check for her. As it was, it seemed she was going to need help on yet another case. Inspector Gibson would have access to all the information she needed, including the coroner’s reports from Doris’s autopsy, if she dared to work with him again.

  It wasn’t that she disliked Gibson. Quite the contrary, in fact. And that was what scared her the most. She wasn’t ready for that kind of involvement again, not yet. Perhaps not ever. Things between her and Charles had been too special, too perfect. She doubted she’d ever find that kind of love and acceptance again.

  However, in the interest of her case, she’d put her personal concerns aside.

  Now, she just had to work out how to contact the Inspector again without it looking obvious.

  Chapter Four

  A few hours later, Hazel went back downstairs to talk to the staff. They gathered in the kitchen, the hub of her large home. As she was just one person, many of the rooms at Hastings Manor sat dormant, but not this one. This room was her favorite. It was filled with familiar things from her childhood, and she took comfort from the sparkling black-and-white tile floors and gleaming copper jelly molds hanging from the walls. Yellow-glazed pottery mixing bowls lined the pine shelves of the large hutch against one wall, and dappled late-day sunlight broke through the clouds outside to stream in through the high-set windows.

  They all sat around the huge butcher-block table in the center of the space—Maggie, Shrewsbury, Duffy, and Hazel—while Alice bustled about, making two Battenberg cakes. Why they needed two, Hazel had no idea, but Alice had insisted. At thirty-eight, Hazel had still managed to maintain her slim, girlish figure. That could change quickly if her cook insisted on whipping up a plethora of goodies each day. The air filled with the smells of vanilla and cocoa and a hint of strawberries, which Alice used to color half of the cakes.

  Hazel sighed and smiled at her staff sitting around the table. “I’m sure you’re all wondering why I’ve called you here.”

  The staff exchanged looks but remained silent.

  “The truth is I need help on this new case I’m investigating. I can’t ask anyone from my social circles, as I’m sure you understand. What I need is dirty gossip, the kind not found in drawing rooms and polite tea parties. Duffy”—she glanced at her chauffeur—“I know you’re well-connected with the staff at other homes in the area, especially Farnsworth Abbey. I thought you might know something, seeing as you’re related to half the people in our local town.”

  “Well, madam,” he said, running a hand through his thick dark-blond hair. He’d removed his usual black hat indoors and looked even younger because of it. “As a matter of fact, my second cousin twice removed is the under-butler for the Wakefields. If you’d like, I’d be happy to pump him for information later at the pub.”

  Alice snorted, stirring together butter, sugar, flour, ground almonds, baking powder, eggs, vanilla, and almond extract in a large mixing bowl. “Listen to you, Duff. Talking like a young rake, going to pubs to gossip and getting up to no good. You should be careful who you associate with behind our backs. And don’t go spreading a load of rumors about us, either. You’d do well to mind your friends and watch your back around
those others.”

  Duffy gave the cook an annoyed stare. “Like you’re one to talk, with all your secret baking for Inspector—”

  “Hush!” Alice’s gaze darted to Hazel before she turned around fast to scrape the cake-mix into four separate tins. She then started a second bowl of the mix, this time minus the almond extract but adding pink food coloring and fresh strawberries. “What I bake and whom I make it for are my business. Besides, I don’t see you complaining when it comes time to stuff your face.”

  Ears perking, Hazel crossed her arms. “It is my business, though. Who exactly is the second cake for, Alice?”

  Huffing, the cook set the yellow mixing bowl aside and wiped her hands on her apron as she turned to face Hazel once more. Her cheeks were ruddy, and the tiny grey hairs around her face, peeking out from beneath her white cap, curled around her face. She kept her gaze lowered as she spoke, her brows knitted and her expression sheepish. “It’s for Detective Chief Inspector Gibson, madam. But before you go getting upset, please let me explain.”

  “The Chief Inspector?” Hazel sat back, gaze narrowed. She’d always been well aware of her cook’s nurturing nature—especially given Alice had lost a child when she was younger and thus tended to mother those under her care. She’d even known Alice had taken a liking to Inspector Gibson and had been trying to get them together since the Pembroke case. But baking for the man was something else altogether. Baking implied a certain intimacy that Hazel was just not comfortable sharing with another person yet. And yes, she liked Gibson. He was a good detective and trustworthy too, but she wasn’t ready for anything more, with him or anyone else. Charles had only been gone three years, and thoughts of a romantic involvement with another man made her dizzy. Of course, she did enjoy her friendship with Inspector Gibson, though, and it was nice to have someone she could discuss murder with—both in real life and for her books—but that was as far as it went for her.