If you love a good mystery - or a mystery about lovers - you'll cherish this collection of fourteen seductively sinister tales. These original stories from today's finest crime and suspense writers prove that while love may be blind, it can still aim straight for the heart. Featuring fourteen tales from the most widely read, award-winning authors in the world of mystery, this is a special valentine. With authors such as Carolyn Hart, Nancy Pickard, Ed Gorman, Gar Anthony Haywood and ten others, these are tales of death and desire that any mystery fan will love.
If you love a good mystery - or a mystery about lovers - you'll cherish this collection of fourteen seductively sinister tales. These original stories from today's finest crime and suspense writers prove that while love may be blind, it can still aim straight for the heart. Featuring fourteen tales from the most widely read, award-winning authors in the world of mystery, this is a special valentine. With authors such as Carolyn Hart, Nancy Pickard, Ed Gorman, Gar Anthony Haywood and ten others, these are tales of death and desire that any mystery fan will love.
Love and Death
Love and Death
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Overview
If you love a good mystery - or a mystery about lovers - you'll cherish this collection of fourteen seductively sinister tales. These original stories from today's finest crime and suspense writers prove that while love may be blind, it can still aim straight for the heart. Featuring fourteen tales from the most widely read, award-winning authors in the world of mystery, this is a special valentine. With authors such as Carolyn Hart, Nancy Pickard, Ed Gorman, Gar Anthony Haywood and ten others, these are tales of death and desire that any mystery fan will love.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781415910979 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Books on Tape, Inc. |
| Publication date: | 12/06/2007 |
| Edition description: | Unabridged |
About the Author
An accomplished master of mystery, Carolyn Hart is the author of twenty Death on Demand novels, the creator of the highly praised Henrie O series, and two previous Bailey Ruth mysteries. She has won multiple Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity awards, and received the Lifetime Achievement award from Malice Domestic. Her first Bailey Ruth mystery, Ghost at Work, was named one of the best mysteries of 2008 by Publishers Weekly. She is one of the founders of Sisters in Crime, and lives in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma.
Read an Excerpt
Chapter One
Bridal Flowers
Dorothy Cannell
* * *
Dorothy Cannell first introduced her unlikely pair of private detectives—the Misses Hyacinth and Primrose Tramwell—in the pastoral mystery novel Down the Garden Path. They subsequently made appearances in The Widows Club and Mum's the Word, Cannell's series featuring Ellie and Ben Haskell. "Bridal Flowers" is a response to readers' frequent requests for a return of the Tramwell sisters. Cannell's novels and short stories are most often set in her native England. "The Family Jewels" won the 1994 Agatha in the best short story category. Her latest book is Bridesmaids Revisited, published by Viking in June 2000. She lives in Illinois with her husband Julian and two Cavalier King Charles spaniels named Bertie Woofster and Jeeves.
"That obnoxious woman!" Hyacinth Tramwell set down her cup and saucer with a bang on the coffee table. "I ran into her last year at the church bazaar, and she bored me for an entire hour What on earth can she want?"
"Probably come collecting for one of her pet projects." Her sister Primrose gave a fluttering sigh. "And the bother of it is that I'll probably agree to make a donation to a group I despise simply because she intimidates me so."
"Nonsense, Prim. You will square your shoulders and remember that you are a woman in your sixties and a private detective to boot, not a child to be ordered to hand over a bag of sweets."
"Yes,dear."
Before either woman could say more, the sitting room door opened and their butler, a man of uncertain age and nondescript appearance, entered. "Mrs. Smith-Hoggles," he intoned, as if informing them of an outbreak of bubonic plague in the village. Behind him loomed a shadow, which took on form and substance when he bowed and retreated.
"Does he always do that?" The woman in the brown felt hat and camel coat was slimly built but she had a large voice.
"Always do what?" Hyacinth raised an eyebrow.
"Pad about the place in his socks."
"Certainly. He is an ex-burglar, excellent training for his present job. We could not ask for a more unobtrusive butler."
"But aren't you afraid he'll pinch the silver?"
"Dear me, no," twittered Primrose. "His passion is eighteenth-century clocks, quite single-minded about it. His brother specialized in sundials before his retirement. And there is a sister who I believe still deals in pocket watches. Quite the family business one might say. But I must not rattle on, pray do sit down, Mrs. Smith-Hoggles, and tell us what brings you here on such an inclement morning."
Their visitor hesitated before taking a seat. She had met the Misses Tramwell on several occasions at village functions but had not previously been to Cloisters, their ancestral home. She had passed it numerous times in the car and occasionally on foot, and although she preferred modern dwellings, she had conceded that its mellow brick and pigeon gray roof were charming. The same, she now admitted, must be said of the interior. The hall had been imposing with its walnut paneling and family portraits, and this room, whilst small, whispered of old money. The sisters sat on chintz sofas facing each other on either side of a fireplace whose mantel displayed brass candlesticks and several pieces of Minton china. A grandfather clock stood in one corner, two floor-to-ceiling bookcases housed leather-bound volumes, and Mrs. Smith-Hoggles was herself seated on a striped Regency chair. Indeed, nothing could be faulted, from the silver tea service on the rent table under the window to the time-muted colors of the needlepoint rug. Even so, she winced as she settled her handbag, a recent purchase from Harrods, on her knees.
Hyacinth Tramwell had not, in Mrs. Smith-Hoggles's opinion, aged gracefully. Indeed, she looked as though she had battled the process every inch of the way. Her improbably black hair was plaited into a coronet on top of her head, which in itself might not have been so outré if it had not been poked around with stick pins that flashed with a variety of colored stones. Mrs. Smith-Hoggles suspected that there might be genuine emeralds and rubies among them. But that only compounded the absurdity, when offset by a pair of dangling, dagger-shaped earrings and the ankle-length dress of some gauzy red material topped by a black lace shawl. With her sallow complexion and dark eyes, the woman could have been a gypsy come in from hawking clothes pegs and bunches of wax flowers door to door. Mrs. Smith-Hoggles had a well-bred distaste for gypsies along with a great many other things that she did not consider to be top drawer. And for all her bizarre appearance, Hyacinth Tramwell was from among the country's leading families.
The sister Primrose was definitely more what one might hope to expect. Her silver curls, periwinkle-blue eyes, and crumpled petal complexion reminded one of a sweet little aunt whose days were mainly spent knitting or writing beautifully penned letters to beloved nieces and nephews. The only perceivable oddity was that she wore a long Mickey Mouse watch and—Mrs. Smith-Hoggles noted, looking down—a pair of frilly socks instead of stockings. But eccentricities, even in Hyacinth Tramwell's case, should perhaps be overlooked, given what was rumored to be their vast wealth and the cousin several times removed who was either a duke or an earl. Besides, if they weren't the least bit untraditional, they wouldn't have entered the private detection business, and she wouldn't be sitting here.
"May we offer you some tea? We can ring for Butler," Hyacinth indicated a tasseled bell rope, "and have him bring you a cup."
"No, thank you, I had one just before leaving home." Mrs. Smith-Hoggles replied in her oversized voice. "How curious that he should be called that!"
"Butler?" Hyacinth picked up her own teacup. "It's an alias. As with all self-respecting criminals, he had dozens when we first met him hiding in the wardrobe in Primrose's room."
"After all those years spent looking for a man under my bed." Her sister's eyes twinkled at the folly of it. "Life never turns out the way we expect it to, does it? I had the idea that you had come collecting for some charity, but I have a presentiment that an unexpected turn of events in your life is what has brought you to us. In other words, you seek the services of Flowers Detection."
"That is the case," said Mrs. Smith-Hoggles.
"You have a daughter." The dagger earrings sliced against Hyacinth's neck as she leaned forward. "Could this be a matter touching upon her? Has she disappeared?"
"No, it's not that."
"Then you fear some danger threatens her."
"How astute of you." Mrs. Smith-Hoggles drew a deep breath. "To think immediately of Emily."
"You are sadly a widow." Primrose adjusted the cuffs of her lavender cardigan. "Therefore there is no husband to be a cause of distress. Also, you have no other children. And if it were anything other than a personal matter, you would presumably have contacted the police."
Mrs. Smith-Hoggles eyed her thoughtfully. She was clearly more astute than those guileless blue eyes would indicate. "It is so difficult when one is in the position of being both mother and father to an impressionable young girl. And one feels the burden most astutely at a time when one's darling child is about to make the greatest mistake of her life." She reached into her handbag for a monogrammed handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes.
"What sort of mistake?" asked Hyacinth.
"She wants to get married."
"And how old is Emily?"
"Twenty-five."
"Hardly a child; unless," Primrose paused delicately, "the poor dear is simpleminded."
"Certainly not!" Mrs. Smith-Hoggles balled up the handkerchief and returned it to her handbag. "Emily is an intelligent girl. She went to the very best schools and has had every possible advantage. I sacrificed my own social life to be there for her every possible minute. I still tuck her into bed at night. Still cut her bread and butter into soldiers for her when she has a boiled egg. And now this!"
"You have something against the young man. Dear me!" Primrose patted her silvery curls. "I remember how grieved my parents were when I expressed an interest in an insurance salesman. My father did not approve of insurance. He considered it a form of gambling."
"If only it were that simple! Not that I think much of James Watson's means of making a living. He writes articles for a small newspaper. Worse, Emily says he wants to write books. So thoroughly irresponsible. But that is nothing against the fact"—Mrs. Smith-Hoggles shuddered—"that he is the grandson of a man suspected of poisoning his young wife in 1947. Surely you remember the case, seeing that it was a local one?"
"Here in Flaxby Meade?"
"No, in Longbourton, but that is only twenty miles away. The trial was widely reported at the time."
"I do seem to remember." Hyacinth sat ramrod stiff on her sofa. The dagger earrings hung still against her neck. "It was referred to as the Black Hearted Murder because that was the name of the accused: Black. And wasn't his Christian name also James?"
Mrs. Smith-Hoggles nodded. "He and his poor murdered wife had a daughter who is James Watson's mother. That surely tells you what sort of a woman she is, to have named her son after her villain of a father. And this is the family into which Emily is intent on marrying! When there is that perfectly delightful George Hubbard, who is so fond of her and has an irreproachable background and a house with a granny flat already in place."
"But if I recall correctly," said Hyacinth, "James Black was acquitted of his wife's murder."
"Because he'd been clever enough to have her body cremated."
"Before people started fanning the flames of suspicion." Primrose looked pained.
"They didn't take much fanning." Mrs. Smith-Hoggles gave a snort that hadn't been taught at her finishing school. "The poor woman was barely disposed of before James Black married his pretty blond secretary. But from what I've heard, there was talk even before that of the first wife, whose name was Elizabeth, being violently sick after meals and being afraid to eat until she languished away to skin and bone. The housekeeper gave evidence that she once saw James Black pry her mouth open when she refused to touch her soup and force her to swallow a spoonful. There were days—weeks—when she never left her bedroom and would see no one, or more likely was not permitted to receive visitors." Mrs. Smith-Hoggles looked as though she, too, had been given a dose of poison. "And my poor, foolish Emily wants to marry into that family. I have told her it will be over my dead body, but you know how young people are." She stared mournfully at the sisters. "They don't look ahead."
"What of the grandson's character? Is he a reprehensible person?" Hyacinth roused herself from several moments of reflection.
"Not on the surface, although I can't say I appreciate the way he encourages Emily to 'be her own person,' as he calls it. The other day she came home with her ears pierced—something she would never have done without talking to me about it first. Knowing, as she must, how upset her dear father would have been. And of course it led to a row with Emily in tears and Jim, as she calls him, making a great big fuss of her. But I don't see that he needs to have robbed a bank or hit an old lady over the head for me to oppose this marriage. The stigma is bad enough, but bad blood will out. And I have not only Emily to think about but also my future grandchildren." Mrs. Smith-Hoggles reached again for her handkerchief. "Who knows what horrible criminal tendencies they will display as they mature! But I have endeavored, in the midst of my heartbreak, to be fair. As you said"—addressing Hyacinth—"James Black was acquitted of murder, and I suppose there is the remote chance that he was indeed innocent, which is why I have come to ask you to investigate the case."
"One that is more than fifty years old?"
"Oh, but only think, Hy." Primrose pressed her hands together. "What a delightful challenge. One can hardly wait to begin. It is to be hoped"—she eyed Mrs. Smith-Hoggles—"that some of those on the scene are still alive."
"James Black has been dead for more than thirty years."
"That would make him unavailable for questioning." Primrose's face crumpled. "What about the doctor who attended his first wife?"
"Deceased."
"And the housekeeper."
"Succumbed to old age."
"Let us not forget the blond secretary who became the second Mrs. Black," said Hyacinth.
"Died at a health spa," replied Mrs. Smith-Hoggles with another of her less-than-refined snorts. "There was a maid, Kathleen somebody, who lived-in, and gave evidence at the trial, but she left the area immediately afterward. She was young, only seventeen or eighteen years old, so she very likely married. I think she may have immigrated to Australia. So I am afraid that really only leaves the daughter—Jim's mother—as a candidate for questioning. He's very fond of her, I will say that." She returned the handkerchief to the handbag for what the Tramwell sisters hoped was the final time and snapped it shut. "Quite devoted in fact. But, as I said to Emily, that's not always such a good thing. She could end up living with both of them. Unlike dear George Hubbard with his pots of money and impeccable pedigree, I can't see Jim ever having the financial wherewithal to spring for a granny flat."
"Does Emily know you have come to see us?" Hyacinth's eyes were on her teacup, which she had picked up.
"Of course. I wouldn't have dreamed of acting behind her back. She was upset, just as I expected, but I stressed my hope—faint as it is—that you will bring something to light that will set my maternal fears at rest. You will then agree to take on the case?" Mrs. Smith-Hoggles rose to her feet and pulled on a pair of gloves that matched her handbag.
"If you are sure this is what you want," said Hyacinth to the teacup.
"I have thought the matter over carefully and see no alternative course of action."
"Some of our clients are not pleased by what we uncover."
"I have already told you that I don't hold out high hopes of a reassuring outcome."
"Precisely." Hyacinth jangled the bell rope and the sitting room door opened instantly. "Ah, Butler," she said, "our guest is leaving; kindly attend her outdoors with an umbrella. I see"—her black eyes turned to the window—"that it is raining."
"Very good, madam."
"We have not yet discussed the matter of your fee," Mrs. Smith-Hoggles pointed out.
"Oh, I am sure you will not find it unreasonable, but should you do so," responded Primrose at her most fluttery, "we will be only too happy to adjust it. And do not worry; we will be in touch with you the moment we have something to report. Timeliness is the byword of Flowers Detection. Which is not to say that any stone will be left uncovered. That maid you mentioned ... it may be possible to trace her. We have our ways. And James Black's daughter, of course ... no, do not bother to delay yourself giving us her address. Those clouds look quite menacing. Was that not thunder I just heard?"
Mrs. Smith-Hoggles found herself out in the hall with an ex-burglar, and when he withdrew the umbrella from its stand, she wished for a moment that she had not come. But when he did not cosh her over the head and make off up the stairs with her handbag, she left the house feeling that she had made a good morning's work of it.
"So," said Hyacinth to Primrose, "we await a visit from Emily."
"And in all likelihood her young man."
"Possibly on their lunch hours."
"Yes, I don't think they will allow us much time in which to set about our inquiries." Primrose looked at the clock. "Time for a little something, as Pooh would say. But I can't say I fancy either condensed milk or honey. That Dundee cake Butler made yesterday would, I think, do very nicely with a fresh pot of tea."
"My thoughts precisely." Hyacinth smiled at her, but her black eyes held a glitter that did not bode well for whoever occupied her thoughts. Before she could again pull the bell rope, Butler slipped silently back into the room with a loaded tray.
"Wonderful man. You anticipate our every whim," she informed him.
"Certainly, madam. I made sure that I took the umbrella that leaked." He appeared about to say more when the doorbell rang, and he vanished back into the hall to return a few moments later with a fair-haired young woman of a pleasantly plump build and a dark, handsome man in his early thirties.
"Miss Emily Smith-Hoggles and Mr. James Watson," he announced before again disappearing.
"Mother's been here already, hasn't she?" The girl's lips quivered. "I can always tell when she's been in a room. She takes something out of it, leaving it somehow horribly blank. No matter who's left in it or how much furniture there is."
"Em, darling, don't do this to yourself." The man was helping her off with her damp raincoat. He was, Primrose noted with a maidenly flutter, extremely handsome. Dangerously so, some might have said, but she liked the way his eyes lingered on Emily Smith-Hoggles's flushed face, and she thought his mouth kind.
"Yes, do get out of those wet coats, that's right—I'll take them." Hyacinth did so and tossed them on the settle in front of the fireplace. "And now sit yourself down on that sofa and unburden yourselves to my sister Primrose and me."
"But you've already talked to Mother," Emily protested, "which means you're bound to be on her side. She'll have told you the whole lurid story about Jim's grandparents. Only I don't see it that way any more than Jim does. He told me all about it, soon after we first met at a party—neither one of us realizing at first that we came from the same part of the country. Well, Jim hadn't ever lived around here, but it's where his roots were, and I wasn't horrified to think that his grandfather had been tried for murder. Not in a grisly sort of way. The whole thing seemed to me so very sad. A terrible tragedy, but not something that alters who Jim is. It was Mother who went and put her dreadful spin on it. Scolding and nagging day in and day out that I was putting my head in a noose by wanting to marry him. Such rubbish"—her eyes filled with tears—"because he is the dearest man in the entire world."
"I wouldn't go that far." Jim stroked back a lock of her hair.
(Continues...)
Table of Contents
| Bridal Flowers | 1 | |
| Away for Safekeeping | 23 | |
| A Girl Like You | 40 | |
| Company Wife | 55 | |
| Secrets | 84 | |
| The First One to Blink | 111 | |
| The Tunnel | 123 | |
| Till 3:45 | 148 | |
| A Night at the Love Nest Resort | 168 | |
| Tea for Two | 182 | |
| April in Paris | 192 | |
| The People's Way | 217 | |
| Love at First Byte | 233 | |
| The Collaboration | 259 |