Murder in the Snow: A gripping 1920s historical cozy mystery (A Lady Eleanor Swift Mystery Book 4) Read online

  Murder in the Snow

  A gripping 1920s historical cozy mystery

  Verity Bright

  Books by Verity Bright

  The Lady Eleanor Swift Mystery Series

  1. A Very English Murder

  2. Death at the Dance

  3. A Witness to Murder

  4. Murder in the Snow

  5. Mystery by the Sea

  Available in Audio

  1. A Very English Murder (available in the UK and the US)

  2. Death at the Dance (available in the UK and the US)

  3. A Witness to Murder (available in the UK and the US)

  4. Murder in the Snow (available in the UK and the US)

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Mystery by the Sea

  Hear More from Verity Bright

  Books by Verity Bright

  A Witness to Murder

  Death at the Dance

  A Very English Murder

  A Letter from Verity

  Acknowledgements

  *

  To Miren and Michael for championing Eleanor and Clifford, and, of course, Gladstone.

  ‘It matters not how a man dies, but how he lives.’ – Samuel Johnson

  One

  ‘Botheration!’

  Despite weeks of meticulous planning, one small, but crucial detail had been overlooked.

  Staring up at the cream-stone country mansion, Lady Eleanor Swift was, however, quite unable to fathom what it was. All three floors and both narrow towers that flanked the entrance were decked out in shimmering festive splendour. Inside, the finishing touches for the villagers’ Christmas Eve lunch were being efficiently ticked off by her meticulous butler and hard-working staff. So what was it?

  She walked inside looking around the impressive marbled entrance hall with her piercing green eyes. And then she remembered.

  ‘Gladstone!’ She clutched her mop of red curls. ‘What on earth are you doing?’

  The stumpy tail furiously wagging under the Christmas tree froze.

  She strode over and tapped his back. ‘Come out immediately!’

  The elderly bulldog she’d inherited from her late uncle, Lord Byron Henley, backed out reluctantly and stared up at her. A green Christmas bauble swung from one of his bottom front teeth.

  ‘Oops! I thought I’d made sure they were all too high for you to reach.’ She relieved Gladstone of his prize and dropped to all fours, shuffling under the broad lower branches to check there were no more hiding. The bulldog joined her, covering them both in pine needles.

  The tree had been planted in an enormous container filled with earth and she now saw, dotted around the base, the telltale signs of bulldog burial.

  ‘Gladstone! You’ve been burying all the baubles the staff spent so long putting up.’

  He gave a loud woof in reply and spun in a stiff-legged circle, which made the whole tree lurch dangerously.

  She flinched at the sound of more decorations falling to the polished oak floor and then clutched her cheek. ‘Ouch!’ She held her breath. ‘Shh! We need to sort out this mess before Clifford finds out.’

  A polite cough came from behind her.

  ‘Too late,’ she whispered in the bulldog’s ear. ‘Double botheration!’

  She crawled back out and straightened her dress against her slender frame. ‘Ah, Clifford, there you are. The tree looks absolutely wonderful.’

  Her impeccably turned-out butler cast a disapproving eye over her muddy hands, the nest of pine needles in her hair and the gash on her cheek. ‘Most perceptive of you to crawl all the way underneath to fully appreciate it, my lady.’

  His tone was reminiscent of the way he’d spoken to her as the little girl who used to spend rare summers at the Hall during holidays from her boarding school.

  ‘Very funny. Gladstone and I were—’

  He pointed a white-gloved finger at the cream damask-upholstered settle streaked with muddy dog prints.

  She winced. ‘Okay, I was just trying to cover up the fact he’s been un-decorating the tree before you noticed.’

  ‘A plan unlikely to have succeeded, my lady, seeing as I was hanging onto the tree from the first-floor landing to save it from falling on your, and Master Gladstone’s, head.’

  ‘Ah! Thank you.’

  ‘Regrettably, I appear not to have totally preserved you from injury.’ He pulled a pristine handkerchief from his pocket. ‘That cut needs attending to.’

  She put a tentative hand to her cheek. ‘Pah, it’s just a scratch.’

  ‘I believe I may have mentioned previously that a scratch which bleeds that perceptibly is in fact termed a “cut”, my lady. And we have but thirty-five minutes left before you need to play hostess as the… ahem, lady of the manor.’

  With her hands hastily scrubbed and the worst of the pine needles shaken from her hair, she was about to rejoin Clifford when her housekeeper appeared. A diminutive, soft-curved woman, her ever-ready smile and patient manner gave her the air of everyone’s favourite aunt.

  ‘Gracious, my lady, excuse my asking but what happened to your face?’

  Eleanor felt for the cut, which she silently admitted was feeling rather hot and raised around the edges. ‘Oh, it’s just a scratch, Mrs Butters. I’m fine.’

  ‘There’s nothing fine about anything that angry looking. I can’t leave you walking about like that. Whatever would your late uncle think of that, God rest his soul?’

  Eleanor patted her housekeeper’s arm. ‘Thank you, but Clifford already insisted I douse it in something frightfully spiteful. Honestly, I ended up with much worse scrapes and bruises when I travelled the world. And none of my arms or legs fell off.’

  Mrs Butters chuckled. ‘I see half of your uncle and half of your mother in you, if you don’t mind my saying so, my lady. Not that I saw a huge amount of your mother, as you know. But there is definitely a streak of your mother’s fierce independence in you.’

  Eleanor reflected that she hadn’t seen a great deal of her mother either. Her parents had disappeared when she was only a young child, after which her uncle had sent her to boarding school. ‘Thank you. Now, how about a compromise? Instead of dragging you away from preparing for the hordes of ravenous villagers who will soon descend upon us, I’ll slap whatever you recommend on this minor scratch… er, cut. Then, together, we can finish any last-minute preparations.’

  ‘D
eal, my lady. In the medicine cabinet beside the second kitchen dresser there’s a pink tin. It smells like honey and eucalyptus. Slather that on nice and generously. Then you need to find the arnica tablets and take two.’

  After following her housekeeper’s instructions, Eleanor checked that everything food-wise for the event was going smoothly. Mrs Trotman, her warm-hearted but no-nonsense cook, with the help of Eleanor’s young maid, Polly, seemed to have everything well under control. Except, rather worryingly, Gladstone. He’d gone AWOL from his bed by the range where he’d been grounded for the stealing-baubles-from-the-Christmas-tree-and-burying-them escapade.

  Out in the hallway, she frowned, trying to remember what she had been doing before a wilful bulldog had interrupted her.

  ‘Perhaps if you would care to consult the planner I gave you, my lady?’

  She jumped. ‘Clifford, how many times have I told you not to do that silent materialising trick? It’s most off-putting.’

  ‘Apologies, but I am a butler. I will in future, however, endeavour to appear at your side heralded by sackbuts and cornetts.’

  ‘It would be a help.’ She spotted the ghost of a smile. Clifford had not only been her late uncle’s butler, but before that his batman in the army. Despite the class difference they had become firm friends. On his deathbed, Lord Byron had asked Clifford to look after his beloved niece, a duty he carried out with unwavering loyalty, iron resolve and large doses of dry wit. She patted her cardigan down. ‘But it appears my planner has… erm, misplaced itself. Again.’

  ‘Indeed. Might I suggest then inspecting the ballroom? The luncheon tables are almost finished. The ladies have done a remarkable job, as always.’

  ‘Of course they have. You all fulfil your duties with such dedication, you richly deserve your own treat once the villagers have retired tonight.’ She smiled at him. ‘Wasn’t it a wonderful tradition Uncle Byron instigated, inviting most of Little Buckford to the Hall each Christmas Eve?’

  ‘His lordship was a most benevolent gentleman, my lady.’

  ‘And we’ve a few extra people from Chipstone this year. It seemed churlish not to extend the invitation as we had a few places free at the table. I’ve no idea who’s coming, I just asked the Women’s Institute ladies to arrange it. I do hope my first bash at hosting will live up to Uncle Byron’s memory.’ She suddenly felt lost. ‘I also wish with all my heart he was here.’

  Clifford cleared his throat. ‘As do I, most heartfully. But perhaps he is, my lady. I believe his lordship’s spirit will always live on at Henley Hall. Now, shall we finish checking all is ready? Your guests will have been looking forward to this since the twenty-fifth of December last.’

  ‘No pressure then!’

  Two

  The lunch tables did indeed create a magnificent scene. Starched ivory cloths hung to the floor, topped with long artful sprays of white cyclamen and red roses set among the lightest green spruce. Tall silver lanterns punctuated the tables’ length. At each place setting, on a square of red linen, edged in gold ribbon, sat a handmade paper Christmas cracker. Jugs of ruby-red fruit cordial stood ready and waiting beside small towers of polished glasses.

  ‘It’s beautiful, Clifford,’ she breathed. ‘I must find the ladies to thank them again. And Miss Moore, I think she’s still here. Her floral displays are quite the centrepieces.’

  As they passed back through the main hallway, Clifford paused to consult a neatly handwritten list he pulled from his morning-suit pocket. ‘We have yet to check if the three games rooms are correctly set up. Then the refreshments room and the changing room for the race runners.’

  Eleanor felt a slight wave of panic as she peeked past his elbow at the list. ‘Oh golly, and there are still the last of the farewell gifts the guests will take home with them to finish tying the ribbons on. How on earth are we going to do all of that in’ – she pulled her uncle’s fob watch from her pocket – ‘what is now twenty-five minutes?’

  ‘Methodically and meticulously, my lady, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ she muttered.

  Through a window, she caught sight of a horse-drawn wagon turning in past the long row of garages. ‘I’ve just thought of one more, most important job, Clifford. I won’t be a minute.’

  At the back door of the kitchen, she shivered and pulled her cardigan closer round her before stepping out into the icy air that froze her breath. Hurrying over to the wagon, she called out a greeting to the athletically built figure heaving a sack of coal onto his shoulders.

  ‘Mr Canning, merry Christmas. And how are you?’

  He turned and fixed her with piercing blue eyes, set in chiselled features. He nodded, shaking some of the coal dust from the strands of his fair hair poking out from beneath his cap. ‘Right enough, m’lady.’ His rough voice always reminded Eleanor of a growling beast. With a hard shrug, he jerked the sack further over his back.

  ‘Gracious that looks rather heavy. Clifford could ask Joseph to help you with his wheelbarrow?’

  Canning scowled. ‘Nothin’ wrong with me arms, nor anything else, if that’s what you’re suggesting.’

  Eleanor bit her tongue wondering why on earth nature had seen fit to waste such handsome features on such a charmless man.

  ‘No, I wasn’t. I just thought it might help. Give you more time to get back home and change and still catch the coach bringing the other people from Chipstone to the Christmas lunch.’

  ‘I’ll manage right enough.’

  ‘As you wish.’ The frantic waving of a tea towel at the back door caught her attention. ‘Ah, a minor emergency. Please excuse me, Mr Canning. Looking forward to seeing you later.’

  Without a word, he walked away towards the coal cellar.

  She shook her head, wondering if she had done the right thing inviting him to the Christmas lunch. He had been delivering coal to Henley Hall long before she’d inherited it from her uncle earlier that year. And he used to live in the village before moving to Chipstone, so it had seemed rude not to. Besides, Ellie, mother always said to look for the good in everyone.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by her housekeeper semaphoring again from the doorway. She hastened over. ‘Mrs Butters, are you alright?’

  ‘Oh my lady, so sorry to interrupt but Father Time is fair dashing round the Hall leaving us no minutes to get all the last things done. I can’t find Mr Clifford and he does like things to run to clockwork. And Trotters, I mean Mrs Trotman, is having kittens in there.’

  Eleanor clapped her hands. ‘Whatever it is, we can sort it out. Come on.’

  Having indeed sorted out half a dozen minor emergencies, Eleanor was hastily tying the last of the ribbons on the wreath that hung on the front door. Another Henley Hall tradition, everyone contributed something to the decoration that would welcome visitors throughout the festive season. Being a part of that felt very special. As she added the crowning ribbon, Mr Canning appeared sat aboard his coal wagon.

  ‘Thank you for delivering on Christmas Eve, I do appreciate it,’ she tried one last time. ‘I’ll see you at the lunch later, perhaps?’

  There was no reply and Eleanor turned back to her ribbon. Even he can’t find something to be unhappy about in that, Ellie. Just ignore him and finish the wreath.

  She heard him jump down from his seat. ‘Lady Swift?’

  ‘Yes?’ She turned back in surprise.

  He pulled off his cap. She had never seen him look nervous before. ‘Just wanted to say ta like. For the invite. To the lunch,’ he added as if she were a little dense.

  Had there been a chair behind her, she’d have fallen into it over him uttering a ‘thank you’.

  ‘Yes. I know. My pleasure.’

  He looked down at his cap and then seemed to focus his piercing blue eyes somewhere over her left shoulder. ‘You know, you’re not like the other toff— gentry I deliver to.’

  ‘Ah, well perhaps not.’ She sighed, wishing for the untold time that her recent inheritance of Henley Hall had also inc
luded a manual on how to be a proper lady of the manor.

  ‘Didn’t mean to be rude. No offence. Your uncle were the same.’

  ‘None taken. I rather take that as a compliment.’

  He ran his hand along his jaw, revealing the blue tattoo of a compass that ran down his neck and disappeared into his collarless shirt. ‘Most fancy folk pretend I don’t exist when I’m delivering.’ He gestured behind her to the Hall. ‘Places way less posh than this.’ His face clouded over. ‘Only time they acknowledge I exist is when one of them stuck-up footmen complains I’ve left a blooming sooty footprint somewhere.’ He glanced at her face and then away. ‘Excusing the language, m’lady.’

  She shrugged. ‘It must be almost impossible to do your job without leaving some…’ Eleanor tailed off. He obviously isn’t listening, Ellie. Honestly, why did you ever think you—?

  The anger that suddenly erupted on his face stopped her thoughts. ‘You know what they say? At this time of year with me breaking my back?’ He jabbed a blackened finger at her. ‘They say all I bring is a sack of bad luck!’

  She shook her head. ‘I can’t see anything unlucky about having someone run a wonderfully efficient service that means I and my staff can have heat and hot water over the festive season.’