Mystery by the Sea: An utterly addictive English cozy mystery (A Lady Eleanor Swift Mystery Book 5) Read online

  Mystery by the Sea

  An utterly addictive English 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

  The Lady Eleanor Swift Mystery Series

  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

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Hear More from Verity Bright

  Books by Verity Bright

  A Letter from Verity

  A Witness to Murder

  Death at the Dance

  A Very English Murder

  Historical Notes

  Acknowledgements

  *

  To Mike, for reading, and liking, the Lady Swift books even though he really shouldn’t.

  ‘Happiness consists of living each day as if it were the first day of your honeymoon and the last day of your vacation.’

  – Leo Tolstoy

  One

  ‘’Tis terrible bad luck.’

  Lady Eleanor Swift smiled. ‘Really, Polly, whatever do you mean? You’ve no need to back up whenever we happen to meet each other. You could fit six people across the width of each stair with ease.’

  ‘Mustn’t cross on the stairs, your ladyship,’ her young maid whispered. ‘Begging your pardon for saying so, but ’tis terrible bad luck.’

  ‘Ah, I see!’ Eleanor frowned. ‘Well, we definitely don’t need any more of that!’ She tucked some of her wilder red curls behind her ear. ‘Perhaps we had better coordinate our ups and downs this morning then, Polly? Otherwise’ – she peered over the polished oak bannisters at Clifford, her impeccably turned out butler, who was consulting a meticulously handwritten list in the hall below – ‘we might both be in trouble.’

  Her young maid swallowed hard and fiddled with the lace at the top of her apron. ‘Oh lummy, Mr Clifford will be spitting feathers if things get late.’

  Eleanor smiled at the image this conjured up. ‘Don’t worry, he’s just keen to make sure everything goes to schedule because we’re all going… on holiday!’

  Polly squealed, then clapped her hand to her mouth. Clifford peered up at them disapprovingly. He pulled a fob watch from his pocket, consulted it with a sniff, and then shut the case with a resounding snap that echoed round the marble entrance hall.

  ‘Oops!’ Eleanor whispered, gesturing to Polly that they had better both get moving.

  In the doorway of her bedroom, she paused, wincing at the tangled mountain of clothes on her bed and the straggle of shoes that littered the floor.

  Oh botheration, why is it so hard to choose what to take, Ellie? It’s only a week by the seaside. A flashback to her days cycling abroad brought a wistful smile to her lips. You learned the art of travelling light then. She looked at the clothes on the bed again and groaned. She’d crossed the world with less luggage. But this was 1921, England, and she was lady of the manor now, and was expected to look, and behave, like a lady. She sighed. The trouble is, Ellie, you really don’t feel like one!

  Mind you, it had only been a few months ago that she’d found out her uncle, Lord Byron Henley, from whom she’d inherited Henley Hall the year before, had been murdered. And only a few months ago that she’d broken off a – for her – long-running romance with a dashing young lord.

  She shook her head. Let the holiday decide what’s next, Ellie. Kick up your heels, relax and have fun.

  ‘Right, best start packing then,’ she said aloud.

  A discreet cough interrupted her. She spun round to see Clifford in the doorway, his eyes averted so as not to be looking into her bedroom. Eleanor, having been brought up by bohemian parents abroad for much of her life, smiled at his propriety.

  ‘Oh step in, Clifford, do. We can’t talk if we aren’t actually in the same part of the house, for goodness’ sake.’

  ‘My lady.’ He turned to face her but remained on the other side of the threshold. ‘I came to ask if your cases were ready for me to remove to the Rolls.’

  ‘Ah! Not quite.’

  ‘Not quite?’

  ‘Alright, not at all. I confess my brain has gone to mush. I can’t think of what I might need or want. I mean, it’s the Grand Hotel in Brighton, and yet it’s also the English seaside in March. How does one balance the height of glamour with possible drizzle and gusty winds?’

  ‘Perhaps if you had prepared a list yesterday, or the day before that, as I suggested?’

  She laughed. ‘Oh dash it, I’ve been too excited that’s the problem. After all that nasty business at Christmas, you, the staff and I deserve a break. Especially as it will also be my birthday while we’re away.’ Even though Clifford was her butler, she never really thought of him as ‘staff’.

  ‘And Master Gladstone?’ Clifford added at the sound of crashing coming from Eleanor’s adjoining bathroom. ‘Although it seems he may already be occupied with some mischief of his own as usual.’

  Gladstone was the elderly, but wilful, bulldog she’d inherited from her uncle along with the Hall, and, as she was finding out, its secrets.

  ‘Gladstone?’ she called out.

  A grunt came in reply as he appeared, a soggy leather slipper covered in face cream hanging from his mouth.

  Eleanor wagged her finger at him, trying not to smile. ‘Naughty boy, you are going to make us late!’ She stole a sideways peek at Clifford, who rolled his eyes.

  ‘Something that is already late, cannot be made late, only later, my lady.’

  Eleanor did her best to look serious. ‘I shall be ready in ten minutes. Not a moment more.’

  ‘Then, I shall see you in a lady’s ten minutes.’ His coat-tails swung round the door frame as he swept off silently down the corridor.

  ‘A lady’s ten minutes! The cheek! He means half an hour. Come on, Gladstone.’ Eleanor clapped her hands. ‘We’ll show him. Ten minutes it will be, even if I
arrive in Brighton woefully unprepared.’

  She pulled her late uncle’s fob watch from her skirt pocket and laid it on the bed. It was a precious memento of one of the few times she’d shared with him. Grabbing the nearest case, she began flinging clothes in.

  ‘Underthings,’ she said to the bulldog, who now sat on the bedroom rug with the cream-covered slipper. ‘Mustn’t forget underthings.’ With both arms, she scooped everything from the second drawer in her walnut dresser and threw those on top of the muddle in the case. Adding three sets of shoes, she consulted the pocket watch. ‘Ha! Still time for toiletries.’

  Thus she came whizzing down the stairs nine and a half minutes later, red-faced and breathless but glowing in triumph. She jumped down the last step, landing next to Clifford’s highly polished shoes.

  ‘Ten minutes exactly!’

  ‘Most impressive, my lady.’ He gave his customary half bow. ‘Will you take a coffee while Mrs Butters attends to your cases?’

  Eleanor had inherited Mrs Butters, her motherly housekeeper, along with her other staff, on her uncle’s death. Why Clifford would expect her to lug the cases out to the car, however, she couldn’t fathom.

  ‘May I ask why, Clifford?’

  ‘To re-pack for you, my lady.’

  She slapped the carved oak newel post and then shook her hand at the pain that shot up her wrist.

  ‘Look here, I shall hit thirty years of age during this wonderful holiday of ours. I know you mean well, but I’m not actually the irritating nine-year-old you remember from the last time I was here.’

  ‘If you say so, my lady.’ His eyes gave a rare twinkle as he gestured towards the bright sitting room in the left-hand tower that flanked the front entrance. As well as being her late uncle’s valet, Clifford had been his wingman and confidante for more years than she had been alive. And, despite his sometimes stiff manner, their relationship was developing along similar lines. ‘Shall we?’

  Only an hour and a quarter later than Clifford’s schedule had demanded, a smart row of cases stood in the hallway ready for loading into the Rolls.

  Gladstone had been bribed to behave with a bone he was now burying in the garden, and the ladies were assembled in a neat line at the bottom of the stairs. Eleanor smiled at them in the reflection in the gold-framed mirror above the telephone table as she pinned her hat.

  ‘Ladies, we’re ready, at last.’ She turned round. ‘Are you sure you’ll be alright with bringing the other luggage down by train tomorrow?’

  The plan was for Eleanor, Clifford and Gladstone to go by car, and the rest of the staff to join them the following day. The ladies would stay around the corner in a guest house run by an old friend of Mrs Butters.

  Her housekeeper stepped forward, her wide smile and gentle demeanour giving her the air of the favourite aunt Eleanor had never had. ‘My lady, we’ll be right as a bucket of ninepences. We’re all so excited to be coming as well. But without you, Mr Clifford and Master Gladstone here, we can scrub Henley Hall from top to bottom so you come home to the shiniest new pin you ever saw.’

  Eleanor smiled. With her previous somewhat erratic and nomadic life, she had never envisaged Henley Hall feeling like home, but in the space of a short, crazy year, it was beginning to. She looked round at the four faces, thinking for the umpteenth time how lucky she was that she’d inherited such wonderful staff. That they had also become her new family brought a lump to her throat.

  ‘I do wish you’d just take the day off though. To relax and pack and whatever.’ All three of the ladies shook their heads vigorously. ‘I also wish that we could have persuaded Joseph to join us. And Silas.’

  Mrs Butters clucked her tongue. ‘You’ll never get old muddy boots to go on holiday with us women. The very thought would send him off hiding in that shed of his. Especially since you had that stove installed in there.’

  Joseph had been the gardener at the Hall for more years that anyone could remember and felt more comfortable around plants than people.

  Eleanor nodded. ‘I know. But Silas?’

  Silas was one of the Hall’s, and her deceased uncle’s, many secrets. She’d still never seen the elusive gamekeeper and had come to realise he was more of a security guard with perhaps some questionable methods and a past to match. But he had done an admirable job since her arrival, especially as she had been caught up in a startling number of murder cases in her short time there.

  Clifford shook his head. ‘Silas has sent his apologies, and his gratitude at your invitation, my lady, but he is not quite the man for donkey rides and ice cream. He will ensure the house is safe during our absence.’

  Polly clapped her hands, her eyes wide at the description of their upcoming week away at the seaside.

  Mrs Trotman, Eleanor’s warm-hearted but no-nonsense cook, stepped forward with a large wicker hamper. ‘I hope you find the picnic to your liking, my lady.’

  ‘Picnic?’ Clifford pursed his lips.

  Eleanor fixed him with a good-humoured, but steely gaze. ‘Yes, a picnic, Clifford. This is a holiday. Picnics are my most favourite thing in the world and as we are so behind with our schedule’ – she ignored his pointed look – ‘we shan’t have time to pull into every eating establishment en route. Anyway, you would only sniff and declare each place unsuitable to dine in for a lady of my position.’ She turned to her cook. ‘Thank you, Mrs Trotman. Whatever you have prepared will be delicious, as always. I shall have to restrain myself from starting in on it before we have cleared the driveway.’

  Clifford hastily picked up two of the cases. ‘My lady, perhaps you would like to depart now?’ He set them down again to pull open the double front doors. In doing so, he revealed the postman walking up the steps.

  ‘Post, Mr Clifford,’ he said unnecessarily as he held out a bundle of letters. He raised his cap to Eleanor. ‘Good morning, Lady Swift. Enjoy your holiday.’

  ‘Thank you, I fully intend to.’ Being lady of the manor in a small village nestled in the Chiltern Hills meant that everyone knew your business, often before you did. ‘I’ll take the letters, Clifford. Would you mind carrying on with the cases?’

  ‘Very good, my lady.’

  Alone in the hall for a few moments, she shuffled through the post.

  Ooh, that looks like an invitation, Ellie. She ran her finger over the embossed envelope. Hopefully nothing too stuffy. The second letter bore the stamp of South Africa. Undoubtedly, Thomas Walker, her old boss, imploring her again to return to her old job heading up the exploration of new destinations for his famous travel company. She looked up at a portrait of her late Uncle Byron and shook her head. ‘No, thank you, Mr Walker, certainly not at the moment. I feel I have unfinished business here.’

  Well, it ought to be attending to your love life, Ellie. It would be shambolic if it wasn’t non-existent. Pulling herself together, she turned the next envelope up the right way and frowned. The writing was familiar, but then again, perhaps not? It bore a Brighton postmark. Maybe it was the hotel confirming their reservation, as it had been a rather sudden decision to go.

  ‘My lady.’ Clifford’s voice cut into her thoughts. ‘Forgive my insistence, but if you start opening your post, we shall be fortunate to make Brighton before dark. Especially,’ – he nodded at the wicker hamper he had picked up – ‘if we are to stop for a picnic.’

  ‘Picnics,’ Eleanor corrected. ‘In the plural, please, Clifford. Brighton is almost eighty miles away, I shall be ravenous more than once.’

  He gave a discreet cough.

  ‘Alright, out with it,’ she said resignedly, shoving the letters into her handbag.

  ‘The Grand Hotel is actually one hundred and twenty-three miles from Henley Hall. At an average speed of twenty-five miles an hour, it will take us just under five hours, not allowing for traffic or picnics.’

  ‘Aha, watch and learn.’ She pulled on her leather driving gloves and flexed her fingers. ‘I shall simply drive faster.’

  Although she knew him not
to be of a religious persuasion, she was sure she saw him cross himself.

  Two

  Negotiating the heavy Rolls around the many tight bends of the country lanes was giving Eleanor a headache. Determined to prove she had mastered the car, she ignored Clifford’s discreet, but constant, flinching as they missed stone walls and other vehicles by mere inches.

  ‘Lucky you did such a thorough job of teaching me to drive, Clifford.’

  ‘Thank you, my lady, but if you recall our lessons were somewhat interrupted at the regrettable discovery of a dead body.’

  ‘Gosh, don’t remind me.’ She shuddered. ‘It was a good thing in one way. Any more lessons and I fear you would have developed a nervous twitch.’

  ‘Would have?’ he muttered. At normal volume, he added, ‘If you will forgive my observation, Master Gladstone is looking a little pale around his gills.’

  She craned her neck to glimpse the dejected bulldog on the back seat in her rear-view mirror. As the car swung around the s-bends, he leaned first one way, and then the other, like a canine metronome.

  ‘Nonsense, he’s sulking because you won’t let him sit in your footwell.’