A Study in Murder Read online

  A STUDY IN MURDER

  A VICTORIAN BOOK CLUB MYSTERY

  Callie Hutton

  To Doug. You know why

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A huge thank you to Nicole Resciniti, agent extraordinaré, who encouraged me to write something different from my usual genre. You were right, I could do it.

  Another thank you to my editor, Faith Black Ross, who made my book so much better.

  Thank you to the tour guides and other lovely people I met in Bath, England who gave me a lot of information about the town and its history.

  Thank you to my three fur babies who wait patiently in my office for me to take break and notice they are out of food.

  CHAPTER 1

  Bath, England

  April 1890

  Lady Amy Lovell, only daughter of the Marquess of Winchester, hurried up the steps of St. Swithin’s, the old and stately church on the Paragon in the Walcot area of Bath, barely on time for the Sunday service. As usual, she arrived ten minutes past her aunt Margaret, who had never in all her life been late for a church service. Or anything else.

  Her aunt shifted over in the family pew as Amy slid in alongside her. She offered her a hymnal, a Bible, and a slight roll of her warm brown eyes.

  Amy looked around the church, comfortable with familiar faces. There were the Misses O’Neill, Miss Penelope and Miss Gertrude, who made it their responsibility to make sure everyone knew of their particular devotion to the church. Their usual flowered dresses matched each other’s, as did their blue-and-pink straw hats. They were not twins, but for some odd reason pretended to be, although they looked nothing alike and their heights were separated by almost a foot.

  Mrs. Edith Newton played the organ with gusto, fingering the wrong chords only a few times. Amy smiled. The woman was half-blind, but no one had the heart to tell her it was time to retire. So, they all sang off-key half the time.

  Amy’s heart slowed down from the race to church, and she settled her hands in her lap as the pastor, Mr. Palmer, began his Sunday sermon.

  Despite her best intentions, Amy’s mind drifted to her latest novel. Like her other self, the famous mystery author E. D. Burton, her mind was always filled with murder and mayhem. In her most recent work, she was stymied by the last red herring she’d thrown into the mix. She needed some guidance and knew exactly what research book would help, but she’d been unable to find a copy anywhere in Bath. Or even in London when she’d made the trek there to search for the tome.

  Mr. Palmer was finishing up his sermon when Amy realized she’d spent the entire time dwelling on her story and hadn’t heard a word the man had said. She made a quick apology to God as the congregation stood and sang the last hymn.

  “Good heavens, Amy, are you aware that you are wearing two different shoes?” Aunt Margaret pointed to Amy’s feet as the last note was sung.

  “Yes, I know, Aunt, but they are actually the same shoes, just different colors. I purposely bought them that way in case something like this happened.”

  “Something like what happened?” Aunt Margaret smiled and nodded at the pastor as they made their way out of the church and down the steps.

  “That I can find only one shoe when it is time to leave the house.” She did try to be more organized and had often thought of hiring someone to just help her keep track of … well … herself. But her last lady’s maid had left the year before to marry, and Amy never seemed to find the time to interview new candidates for the job.

  Aunt Margaret, younger sister of Amy’s father, had practically raised her once Lady Winchester passed away of an ague when Amy was ten years old. Aunt Margaret had only been Amy’s present age, five and twenty, when her role as surrogate mother began. As much as they loved each other, Amy and Aunt Margaret could not have been more different.

  While her aunt was willowy and above average in height for a woman, with ordinary yet lovely features, straight brown hair, and a gait that caused her to almost glide rather than walk, Amy was of less than medium height, and while not plump, she certainly possessed enough curves to fill out her clothes. Her always-in-disarray curly auburn hair and hazel eyes had come to her from her Scottish mother, as had the light freckles peppering her cheeks.

  Amy was the devoted owner of a yapping, white fluffy Pomeranian dog with a missing tail and a propensity for hiding slippers all over the house. Aunt Margaret, meanwhile, possessed a thirty-year-old cockatoo who quoted Shakespeare. Nevertheless, the two women lived in harmony in Winchester Townhouse on fashionable Westgate Street in Bath.

  Amy took in a deep breath of fresh air in the bright sunshine as they strolled arm in arm to the Friendship Hall for lunch, greeting other church members on the way. The first Sunday of every month was Social Sunday, when the congregants shared a meal that each woman had contributed to.

  “If you would set some sort of a schedule for yourself when you are involved in a new book, it would certainly help to tame your life. So many hours of writing, so many hours of other activities.” Aunt looked pointedly at Amy’s shoes. “Like taking care of yourself.”

  “Good morning, ladies.” Viscount Wethington, a longtime friend and fellow Mystery Book Club member, stepped into their path and removed his hat as he greeted Amy and Aunt Margaret. Offering a slight bow, he said, “You are both looking quite fetching. Almost as lovely as the day.”

  “Good morning to you, my lord.” Aunt Margaret returned the greeting, flashing a bright smile. His lordship had always been a favorite of her aunt’s. More than once Amy had felt the slight—or not-so-slight—nudge from Aunt toward Lord Wethington, better known by his friends as William.

  Although a viscount, William had never been one to stand on titles. He was a pleasant-looking man in his early thirties, with light-brown hair and blue eyes. His perpetual smile made him a favorite among their circle of friends. Particularly the ladies. To whom he never seemed to grant much attention.

  Amy had once asked him why he had never married, and after a lengthy, silent stare he had asked the same question of her. Which had brought an abrupt end to that conversation.

  “May I escort you to the hall for lunch?” Ever the gentleman, William extended both elbows so the ladies could walk with him. Amy could not help but compare him to her betrothed, Mr. St. Vincent. Not that St. Vincent would not have acted the gentleman, but his actions always seemed to speak more of impressing those observing him. She pushed thoughts of him and that yet-to-be resolved problem from her mind to deal with later.

  The hall quickly filled up, the noise of laughter and conversation filling the space. William held out a chair for Aunt Margaret and then another for Amy. “Have you finished reading A Study in Scarlet?” He settled next to Amy and turned to face her. “I have found something quite interesting about the story.”

  Both she and William were longtime members of the Mystery Book Club of Bath. The group met every Thursday to discuss various mystery books. They were currently reading Arthur Conan Doyle’s story of detective Sherlock Holmes.

  “I am in the process of reading the story. What is the interesting thing you discovered about the piece?”

  William nodded his thanks to the young girl who placed two glasses of lemonade in front of them. “Ah, I am not going to reveal my discovery until the meeting. I want to know if you notice the same thing I did.”

  “Goodness. How am I to know that I’ve discovered the same thing you’ve discovered if you don’t tell me what it is you’ve discovered?” They served themselves from large platters placed on each table. Today’s array of food consisted of various salads as well as ham, chicken, and roast beef. Since neither Amy nor Aunt Margaret knew her way around the kitchen very well, they had contributed warm rolls and sweet buns Cook had made.

>   Amy eyed her plate, her stomach rumbling, as she thought on William’s question. “You know I hate it when you toss out these innuendoes. And you do it all the time.” She placed her hand over her middle, hoping to quell the embarrassing noise.

  “No, fair lady. I do not do it all the time. Sometimes I sleep, sometimes I go for a walk, sometimes—”

  “Enough!” Aunt Margaret smiled at the two of them as if they were children needing a reprimand. “We are about to have the blessing.”

  Feeling like a child bickering with her sibling, Amy bowed her head while she wondered what interesting fact William had uncovered that she had obviously missed.

  * * *

  Amy glanced up from her conversation with Mrs. Morton and smiled at William as he strolled into Atkinson & Tucker Booksellers, the location of the weekly meeting of the Mystery Book Club of Bath.

  William wandered in her direction, eyeing but not selecting a glass of watered-down lemonade from the table against the wall. “Good evening, ladies.” He offered a slight bow and a warm smile at the group. “Are we prepared to discuss another facet of A Study in Scarlet?”

  “Indeed we are,” Amy said. “I am very impressed with Mr. Holmes’s deductive reasoning. The man makes it all seem so easy.”

  “Ah, you know the saying: the easier it looks, the harder it is to do,” William said.

  Amy shrugged. “One can apply deductive logic to anything.”

  “Excuse my ignorance, Lady Amy, but what precisely is deductive logic? Although Holmes mentions it, I’m not quite clear on it.” Mrs. Miles had joined the group, while her son had sauntered over to Mr. Colbert, a solicitor and fellow book club member, who conversed with Lady Carlisle, another member.

  “Deductive logic is a well-ordered method that provides strong support for a conclusion.” Amy would have loved to add that she used it all the time in her books, but that subject was not one she could address.

  Five years ago, when she’d waved the contract for her first book at her father, full of excitement and joy, he had made her promise that she would use a pseudonym and keep her connection to the book a secret.

  “I am afraid that is beyond my woman’s brain.” Mrs. Miles shook her head and glanced around the group.

  Amy raised her chin. “I disagree. I think a woman could do just as well as any man in solving crimes.” She did it all the time in her work.

  “Indeed?” William’s smirk started her heart thumping with anticipated anger. “Surely a woman would not have the—”

  Amy held up her hand to interrupt the fool man before he said something for which she would make sure he was sorry. “Please don’t say brains, my lord.”

  “Ah, why would I ever be so foolish as to put myself in the line of fire by saying that to a woman who is so set on women’s rights?” William nodded a greeting at Mr. Colbert, Lady Carlisle, and Mr. Miles, who had just joined their circle.

  “Well done, William. I don’t know for what you were defending yourself, but I almost think you have developed some sense in your old age,” Mr. Colbert said.

  William turned toward Lady Carlisle. “And you, Lady Carlisle. Do you believe women could solve crimes by applying logic?”

  Lady Carlisle was a beautiful woman in her early thirties. Her husband, the Earl of Carlisle, held one of the oldest titles in the kingdom. He cut quite a figure in Parliament and was rumored to be in a fine position to be named the ambassador to France. Lady Carlisle enjoyed her husband’s consequence and took every opportunity to flaunt her position in society. “I don’t believe so. Personally, it is my conviction that women should remain in the background and support their husbands.” She smiled sweetly in Amy’s direction. “Is that not true, Lady Amy?”

  Amy gritted her teeth at Lady Carlisle’s condescending tone. “I’m afraid I must disagree once again. I don’t believe that women should remain in the background. That is why my women’s rights group is working to gain the vote. We need to make sure other rights are granted as well. We are not children, and why should a woman need a husband to make decisions for her? ’Tis humiliating.” She took a deep breath, aware that her voice had begun to rise. It was a sore spot for her.

  “But, are not all women eager to enter the wedded state?” William grinned at them, immediately raising Amy’s ire further.

  “I imagine as excited as a gentleman is to succumb to the parson’s noose.” Amy sniffed. “I intend to live my life as I choose, not how a man decides to permit me.”

  William glanced quickly at her hand. “I thought you were betrothed.”

  Betrothed. There was that word again.

  Whyever had she been foolish enough to agree to her engagement to Mr. St. Vincent? Truth be known, she knew precisely why. Papa had come from London, marriage offer in hand, to badger her into it, calling her a spinster and waxing poetic about her lonely state in her old age.

  He had blithely glossed over her observation that Aunt Margaret was quite happy with her spinster state and not at all lonely with all her friends, volunteer work, and social life. Papa’s inability to get his younger half sister married off had been an annoyance for years. ’Twas only recently that he’d seemed to have given up on the idea.

  Spinster, indeed! The word still echoed in her head with distaste. Perhaps at five and twenty she was considered a spinster by society’s rules, and a bluestocking as well. However, she liked her life precisely as it was. She had no sooner accepted Mr. St. Vincent’s offer of marriage than she’d begun to regret her decision.

  Before she could respond to William’s question, Mr. Colbert, acting as the club moderator, called the meeting to order.

  The members drifted from their small groups and arranged themselves on the comfortable chairs, sofas, and settees in the back room of the bookstore set aside for various book club meetings.

  The door between the bookstore and their meeting flew open and Eloise Spencer hurried in, nodding briefly to Mr. Colbert. She made a beeline for Amy, plopping down alongside her on the settee, bumping Amy’s hip with hers, and almost sending her to the floor. “Move over.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Eloise, I shall be bruised in the morning.” Amy rubbed her side.

  Amy and Eloise had been best friends since their school days. Papa had never approved of their friendship, since Eloise was what he referred to as a “hoyden.” Perhaps Eloise’s family was not of their class, but no truer friend had ever existed. Eloise’s father owned several stores in both Bath and London, which put him in the merchant class.

  Since Aunt Margaret was quite fond of her—which Amy sometimes attributed directly to Papa’s disapproval—Eloise was always welcomed at their home.

  Eloise was also the only person outside Amy’s family who knew about her “other” life. When Amy had first told her about her hopes to one day be published, Eloise had encouraged her, read her manuscripts, and offered very well thought out suggestions.

  Once he had the members’ full attention, Mr. Colbert nodded to Mr. Davidson, who had his hand raised.

  “I first want to say that I think Mr. Doyle did a wonderful job portraying the brilliance of Mr. Holmes,” said Mr. Davidson. “A typical male way of thinking that cuts out all the nonsense and gets right to the bottom of the matter.”

  Amy bristled and scowled at the man. She never had cared for Davidson, a tall, gangly fellow with a moustache that covered almost the entire bottom half of his face. He looked toward the few women in the group and smirked as only a man who felt secure in his position in life would do.

  Eloise leaned in to whisper into Amy’s ear. “Are you going to let him get away with that?”

  Before she could speak, William said, “Strange you say that, Mr. Davidson. We just had an opinion from Lady Amy that was quite the opposite.” He turned to her, the twinkle in his eye revealing his attempt to begin a lively debate.

  Part of the reason for the club was to discuss various elements of stories and their characters, but William was known for his propensity to thr
ow out a provocative statement and then sit back and enjoy watching the furor he’d caused.

  “I think both women and men are able to sort through a problem in a logical way.” Lady Forester, another club member, spoke with a soft voice that forced most of the members to lean forward to hear what she said. Although she came to every meeting, she rarely offered an opinion. “Why can’t someone write a book where a woman solves a crime? After all, Mr. Holmes doesn’t go running around London chasing criminals. He sits in his chair and thinks, something a woman could certainly do.”

  “Yes, definitely.” Amy nodded furiously. “Or perhaps even have a woman as a partner with a man in solving a crime.”

  “A partner?” Davidson crossed his arms over his chest and sat back, a sneer on his face. “What does a woman know besides how to order servants about, wipe children’s noses, and drink tea with gossiping women? I would certainly not want a woman as a partner.”

  After a few moments of stunned silence, Wethington turned to Davidson. “I say, old chap. I’m not sure if it was your intention, but I believe you have just insulted every woman in the room.” William’s easy demeanor had changed from enjoying a lively debate to taking umbrage at Davidson’s words. Thank goodness for at least one man who valued women for more than mere fluff.

  “I concur with Lord Wethington.” Amy smiled in Davidson’s direction. She leaned in and said in a soft voice to William, who was sitting in the chair next to the settee, “I believe you grow smarter by the day. Certainly smarter than that numskull Davidson.”

  William attempted to cover up his laugh with a cough.

  Eloise raised her hand. “I also agree with Lady Amy and Lord Wethington.” She glared at Mr. Davidson. “There is no scientific proof that a man’s brain and a woman’s brain operate any differently.”

  Eloise was an insatiable reader. Before she reached her twentieth birthday, she’d gone through every book in the Bath Library. It didn’t matter the content or subject; if it was printed between two covers, Eloise would read it.