Murder at Tulip House

By Linda Fleete

MURDER AT TULIP HOUSE
...It was so easy...Maybe a little too easy...A few granules in the old man’s food and voilà, the old bastard was dead...So very, very dead...

England 1932
In this absorbing tail of jealousy, revenge and murder, Drucilla (Cilly) Carlisle, having recently returned to London due to the untimely death of her employer; the celebrated author, woman’s activist and world traveler, Lady Beatrice Themes-Salbury, discovers that she has a long way to go before the fragments of her world are finally set to rights. Within the span of a few months, having spent the last eighteen years as Lady Beatrice’s personal secretary, Cilly not only has to come to grips with the death of her friend and mentor, but the unexpected death of her much beloved great-uncle, Sir Henry Wetherill-Smythe.
At what should have been a straight forward reading of Sir Henry’s Last Will and Testament, Cilly discovers that her uncle not only died under suspicious circumstances, and his business defrauded of hundreds of thousands of pounds sterling, but a determined assassin is waiting, hidden in the dark ready to kill again. Before the members of Tulip House can become accustomed to their new circumstances, the killer strikes again, leaving one member of the staff lying unconscious in a hospital bed, and another dead on the kitchen floor. Who will be next and why?
With the dogged determination of Detective Inspector Robert Agart, of Scotland Yard, and her great-uncle Henry’s trusted solicitor, Michael Broadmore, a man whose stoic personality belies unexpected feelings for Sir Henry’s lovely niece, an investigation begins. It is an investigation that ultimately reveals the shocking secrets behind a killer’s maniacal need for revenge and retribution.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Linda Fleete
• Release date: Apr 25, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311817891

Linda Fleete

Where do I start? I'm a strong minded intelligent woman with a good sense of humor and a pretty good grasp on where my place is in the world. I am also a mom, a mom-in-law, a daughter, a granddaughter, a sister, an aunt, a friend to some truly wonderful woman, a forever mom to two rescue dogs, an avid reader, a writer (I've read more than I've written, but I'm working on that), a gardener with a successful green thumb, a needlewoman extraordinaire (crochet, knitting, embroidery, and dressmaking), a volunteer, and a retiree (thank God). I have also learned to use the annoying little brain twist, dyslexia, to my advantage. Sometimes I can’t remember my right from my left, but I don't let that stop me. My kids understand and that’s all that matters. Thanks to Oprah’s encouragement for everyone to follow their bliss back in the ‘90s, when I was still earning my living as a secretary, I read what seemed like a million self-help books (probably more like 20), with the hope of discovering just what the heck my bliss might be. To my surprise, I came upon one book that spurred me to take up pen and paper and write about women and their struggles during the turn of the 20th century. I began writing this story, titled Mrs. Frobishere, in 1998, and have been working on it, off and on (more off than on), ever since. I finally have an end goal of December 2017. Wish me luck. Since Mrs. Frobishere seemed to be taking much longer than I had expected to complete, in 2014, after being retired for 3 years, I challenged myself to write, finish (very important), and ePublish (because it’s free) a different story. And I did just that. That book is titled Murder at Tulip House. This unexpected story of murder and mayhem, set in pre-WWII England (1932), popped into my thoughts after binge watching about 15 hours of Hercule Poirot on Acorn.com (best way to watch a series, by the way). I am very proud of this accomplishment and have heard good things from those who have read it. Because of a suggestion by the only literary agent, out of 100 email submissions, who responded positively (she has since dropped me since I do not have a massive social media presence, something publishers require in this day of the Internet before they will publish a first time author), Murder at Tulip House is presently being revised. I hope to have this revised version available soon. Will keep you posted. Don’t know that writing is my bliss, but I sure enjoy the process. I certainly hope you enjoy the results. Well, that’s a little bit about who I am. Look forward to talking to everyone on Facebook. L

Book preview

COPYRIGHT NOTICE

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, business establishments, or events is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Murder at Tulip House

Published by Linda Fleete at Smashwords

Copyright 2014 by Linda Fleete

MURDER AT TULIP HOUSE. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions. For information address the publisher at Smashwords.com.

Cover design by SelfPubBookCovers.com/Astracadia

ISBN 9781311817891 eBook

DEDICATION

To my children.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This story would never have come about if it weren’t for the unwavering support and fantastic encouragement of my very great friend Margaret Reinke. Big hugs to you forever.

A very special thank you to Teri Stevens for her kind critique and constant encouragement. I promise to keep my multitude of rewrites to myself.

All my love and deepest appreciation to my children and their spouses.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

EPIGRAPH

Revenge, at first though sweet,

Bitter ere long back on itself recoils.

--John Milton, Paradise Lost

TABLE OF CONTENTS

COPYRIGHT NOTICE

DEDICATION

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

EPIGRAPH

INNOCENCE

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

GREED

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

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

RETRIBUTION

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

EPILOGUE

INNOCENCE

Chapter 1

West Medfield, Kent 1932

She could still hear it. The rain. The steady tap, tap of the never-ending droplets on the roof were usually a welcome lullaby, but not today.

Today she was going to meet with Lady Howden’s publisher. Not as her cherished employer’s secretary but as an aspiring author in her own right and nothing, not even an overflowing creek or puddles along the front path, would keep her from this very important meeting.

Before leaving the house, without giving her efforts a second thought, having paid this constant drizzle very little mind, Drucilla Cilly Carlisle, a woman of meager but independent means, would merely add a sturdy umbrella, from which she had several to choose, and slip a protective pair of pliable time-tested rain boots over her favorite pair of shoes before stepping from her front door.

But, before rain boots and an umbrella were put to good use, Cilly, determined to put her very best foot forward, took a few extra moments as she dressed for this very important interview.

At the bottom of the stairs, having slowed her pace only slightly; the rhythmic tattoo of her freshly polished shoes having been dulled by the threadbare runner that covered the old treads, she closed the short distance between landing and front door in a few quick steps. Before leaving the cottage, she paused for a moment before the large, ornately framed hall mirror to give her reflection one final assessment.

Centered beneath this slightly tarnished heirloom was a sturdy three legged demi-lune table. It's worn and beautifully inlayed waist-high surface held not only her pocketbook and a stationery box filled with the pages of her perfectly typed manuscript, but also a seldom polished silver serving tray. On her second day in the cottage, Cilly found this seldom used beautifully engraved tray in a cupboard she was organizing and decided to put into service as a decorative letter tray. But today this beautiful antique was nearly overflowing with all manner of deliberately ignored correspondence. The largest envelopes Cilly knew to be legal documents concerning the contested estate of her late employer, the very distinguished author, activist and lecturer, The Most Honorable Beatrice Marchioness of Howden, better known to the public as Miss Beatrice Themes-Salbury.

The myriad of smaller heavily embossed envelopes were the unsolicited social invitations sent her way by her mother, the socially prominent and unabashedly manipulative, The Right Honourable Vivianne Countess of Trenerry; a pretentious woman with a cold standoffish manner who was intent on marrying this wayward and exceedingly ungrateful daughter of hers to the most socially prominent bachelor of the time, should she be able to find one that is. They were invitations Cilly had no intention of accepting but would read and responded to on Sunday…after tea…maybe.

But, responding to any form of correspondence was not on her mind at the moment.

Deliberately ignoring the jumble of mail, she removed a fashionably oversized beret from its hook on the elaborately detailed hatstand, swiftly arranging its slouchy folds over her mop of stylishly cropped golden brown curls. Before adding a beautifully tailored overcoat to her ensemble, Cilly absentmindedly pushed the chunky frames of her glasses back onto the bridge of her nose.

Turning her head from side to side, satisfied that her appearance would meet even her mother’s exacting standards, she slid the boxed manuscript into a well-worn leather satchel, easily fastening the soft straps of the protective flap into the prongs of the tarnished brass buckles. Just before leaving the cottage to catch the next train into the city, she slipped the hand-knit scarf she had created while she was still in Boston with Lady Beatrice, under the collar of the coat. Satisfied that she could stave off the day’s inclement weather, she gathered gloves, purse, satchel, and umbrella, and exited her front door.

The meeting was a complete success. Mr. Patrick Meacher, the managing partner of Meacher and Burn Publishing, and Lady Beatrice’s publisher for well over four decades was very pleased. The manuscript was the first in a series of cleverly revived ancestral tales of romance, adventure, and mystery, cleverly rewritten for the modern-day reader, and he knew they would be a resounding success.

Encouraged by the few pages he had read thus far, and quite pleased to see that one of his favorite authors was again writing, Patrick kept the box saying he would finish reading her manuscript as fast as was humanly possible. He also knew that working with this clever woman would be a very lucrative adventure for everyone.

Cilly, on the other hand, elated by the prospect of writing under her own name and not the masculine pseudonym of Basil Longwood she had had to use when ghostwriting Lady Beatrice’s very popular novels; the highly successful Lady Edwina Hemdale and Detective Bradley Udelle mystery series, was about to enter her home ready to entice the world with the next installment of this new series.

At her front door, the satchel emptied of the highly praised manuscript and refilled with several discreet purchases from a few affordable dress shops and fresh supplies for her supper, Cilly inserted the old-fashioned key into the lock and opened the door. Before she could cross the threshold and put her packages away, she was greeted by the insistent ringing of the telephone. Believing her mother to be the person on the other end of the telephone line and mentally unprepared to speak with this insistent parent, Cilly decided not to answer the jangling device.

Knowing she would speak with her mother at some point over the next few days, and pleased that the ringing had finally stopped, Cilly stepped into the hallway. But before she could settle her packages, remove her coat, and gather the day’s mail from the floor, the telephone began ringing again.

Disappointed that a very delightful day was about to be ruined, she reluctantly decided it was probably better to deal with the inevitable and answer the call. With a sigh of resignation, she swiftly set her packages on the hall table and moved to silence the clamoring instrument.

Picking up the handset, she announced, Beaton Cottage.

Hello. My name is Miss Molyneaux, of Seaton and Seaton Solicitors, and I am calling to speak with Lady Drucilla Carlisle.

This is she, Cilly said, slightly taken aback by the formality of the request.

I am calling on behalf of James Seaton…

Yes, I saw the envelope and I am not interested in anything my mother has to say. Please do not call here again. To emphasize the decisiveness of her statement, Cilly returned the headset onto the cradle with a little more force than was truly necessary, an impolite gesture, to be sure, but at that precise moment, she did not care. Satisfied that her point was made, and accentuating her triumph with a sniff of satisfaction, she gathered her satchel and moved toward the kitchen. But her moment of satisfaction was quickly interrupted when the seemingly silenced device had the temerity to ring a third time.

What now? She grumbled, quite unused to her requests being ignored. Beaton Cottage. She announced a second time, her tone not impolite but not gracious, either.

Lady Carlisle, please do not hang up, Miss Molyneaux begged, I am not calling on behalf of your mother. This is regarding your great-uncle, Sir Henry Wetherill-Smythe.

Uncle Henry? Cilly questioned, her voice instantly changing from irritation to concern. Has something happened?

Yes, as a matter of fact, something has. Miss Molyneaux said, compassion apparent in every word. I am so very sorry to be the one to tell you, but your great-uncle passed away on Tuesday. Thinking the telephone call might be disconnected a second time, Miss Molyneaux rushed on. The funeral is scheduled to begin at eleven o’clock this Saturday morning in Allenby Keep, and the reading of the will is to take place very soon thereafter at Tulip House.

My heavens. Was all Cilly could manage, the winds of outrage completely knocked from her thoughts. Thank goodness there was a bench beside the spindly-legged telephone table because her knees were about to give way. With a decided unladylike thump, she plopped most ungraciously upon the stiffly upholstered seat, her mind racing with ways to disbelieve the horrible words she had just heard, but nothing could change the finality of Miss Molyneaux’s words.

Are you alright? Should I call anyone for you? Miss Molyneaux asked, sincerely concerned.

No, no, I’m alright. But she wasn’t. When the unfamiliar voice said the words, your great-uncle passed away, tears had begun to flow. Finding herself without a handkerchief, and sniffling rather loudly into the receiver, Cilly did her best to wipe away this unexpected display of emotion with the tips of her shaking fingers.

Uncle Henry…gone? This can’t be right. His last letter said all was well and he would be returning from his trip soon. So how can he be dead?

Before her thoughts could wander even farther afield and her emotions get the best of her, Miss Molyneaux’s pleasant voice once again broke through, asking, Lady Carlisle, are you still there? Lady Carlisle? Being addressed in so formal a manner broke Cilly’s concentration, returning her to the situation at hand.

Yes...yes, I am. Cilly said, the words catching in her throat allowing another unladylike sniffle to echo into the mouthpiece. Surprised by how emotional she had become, her thoughts flew back to a time when death was all around her. Well, this won’t do. As matron was known to say. Save your tears for later, my girl. We must say a prayer for the dead and take care of the living. So, dry your eyes, straighten your cap, and gather what you will need; we have wounded soldiers to care for. Bolstered by the strength of these familiar words and the power of memory, she shivered away her melancholy and cleared her throat, then added in a near whisper, Thank you for the offer, but you do not need to call anyone for me.

My pleasure.

Clearing her throat a second time, Cilly asked with some effort, Do you know how it happened?

He slipped away in the night. I was told it was a very peaceful end.

She could not respond and Miss Molyneaux did not intrude. A moment later, having regained the power of speech, Cilly said quietly, I can catch an early train Saturday morning and be in Allenby by 10:15.

That would be perfect. Miss Molyneaux stated, sounding pleased that the name noted on her list as ‘a very important person’ had recovered from the shock of hearing of her uncle’s death. If you do not mind, Mr. Seaton, your uncle’s solicitor, would be pleased to collect you from the station and take you to the church. He would also be available to escort you to the farm for the reading of the will.

That would be very kind. Cilly sighed, still shaken by the news.

If you wouldn’t mind, and since you do not know each other, Miss Molyneaux said, fulfilling the final phase of her instructions, Mr. Seaton has suggested that you each wear a pink rosebud on your coat lapel, as a way of identifying each other.

Yes, an excellent idea. Cilly replied distractedly, pleased with the suggestion even though her thoughts were still muddled by the news of her beloved uncle’s death.

If there are no further requirements, then I will confirm your travel information with Mr. Seaton, and he will see you on Saturday.

Thank you. Their conversation ended, the women quietly disconnected, leaving a bereft Cilly alone with her grief, and an efficient secretary to continue with her tasks.

Wandering towards the front of the house, her thoughts unfocused, she began searching through the jumble of mail for the envelope from her uncle’s solicitor. It only took a moment for her to find this previously ignored letter. It had slid from the pile, its address facing the wall, giving her the perfect excuse for having left it unopened. With a heavy heart and steady hands, she removed the envelope from the table and pried it open. Removing the single sheet of heavy paper she read the following dispassionate words:

Dear Lady Carlisle,

With my deepest condolences, I am writing to inform you that your Great-Uncle, Sir Henry Wetherill-Smythe, passed away in his sleep of natural causes on Tuesday 5 April 1932. The funeral will be held at All Saints Presbyterian Church located in Allenby Keep, Surrey. The service is scheduled to begin at 11:00 o’clock on the morning of Saturday 9 April 1932.

Refreshments for family and friends will be available immediately after the services in the private dining hall of the Allenby Arms Hotel.

For invited family members only, the reading of your great-uncle’s Last Will and Testament will be held at the residence known as Tulip House. In accordance with your great-uncle’s wishes, this private undertaking will commence at precisely 1:00 o’clock in the afternoon on the day of the funeral.

If you would be so kind as to notify my office, upon receipt of this letter, as to whether or not you will be able to attend, we would be pleased to make the necessary arrangements to meet you at the Allenby station and escort you to the funeral and then to Tulip House.

The letter was signed in a flourishing hand by an M. James Seaton, Solicitor to Sir Henry Wetherill-Smythe. It was not a firm that she was familiar with.

Still shaken by the news and surprised by the warm memories these few seemingly cold lines brought to life, Cilly slowly walked the few steps to the drawing-room, seeking the comfort of the small room’s cozy atmosphere. Plopping upon the soft forgiving cushion of the closest chair and being enveloped within the large overstuffed arms and high tufted back, went a long way towards comforting her swirling thoughts.

Uncle Henry was her grandmother’s brother, well, someone’s older brother, she was never quite certain how all the older ones were related. Whoever he was related to, she had spent many an enjoyable summer with him at Tulip House from the age of five years until the end of the summer of her tenth year. At the end of that last summer, as enjoyable as the weeks had been, she went directly from the farm to boarding school, seeming to never darken her uncle’s very welcoming door again, that is, until now.

How sad. We haven’t seen each other in decades and now he’s gone. Thank goodness we didn’t spare our feelings in our letters. Now that would have been a horrible loss.

Before pushing herself from the chair, she set the letter on the small table that flanked the arm of her upholstered sanctuary. Exhaling a sigh of the ages, she crossed the room, which took less than three steps from chair to the converted dining table she was using as a desk. The well-used surface was organized and invitingly located under the small room’s largest window.

Opening a small leather-bound journal, Cilly quickly created a list of everything she would need for an overnight stay in the country. Quite accustomed to managing last-minute requests, as her previous employer had been known for doing everything on short notice, her list of requirements was completed with efficiency and expediency. And I’ll need to speak with Mrs. Ridley about not working this Saturday. She will not be happy but I’m certain she will understand.

Knowing full well that to err is human, especially when under stress; she checked her list a second time before going upstairs. Pulling a battered leather satchel from the back of the guest room’s ancient wardrobe, she flipped the handles open, and placed the gaping carryall on the foot of the old bed. By the time an extra cardigan was folded and placed with the other wrinkle-free items, the neatly scribed list revealed a satisfying checkmark against each item. These small gestures of efficiency brought her no satisfaction. Only more tears that were swiftly wiped away with a very damp handkerchief.

Removing the vegetables and the wrapped parcel containing the chicken she had once planned to roast for her supper and the dress shop purchases packed in her satchel, she walked the short distance to the kitchen. She put the food in the icebox, her appetite gone, and the other parcels on the table. Setting the kettle on to boil, she made a cup of tea before taking a seat at the small kitchen table, her thoughts wandering as she stared into the night.

Chapter 2

Tulip House wasn’t set on a hill with the requisite gardens and clipped lawns spreading from it in all directions as one might suppose. No, it was concealed at the bottom of a tree-enclosed valley with wonderfully intermittently attended gardens, clumped here and there, in whatever shape Sir Henry thought to be most appealing. To the delight and satisfaction of the manor’s owner, the immense ancient trees had the surprising effect of making a large rambling building feel as if it were a cottage in the wood, instead of a building of some substance.

Even though it was the largest building in the area, Tulip House had none of the grandness of a baronial manor, which appealed to Sir Henry’s eclectic sensibilities. It was an unconventional old red brick of a thing, consisting of a three-story hodge-podge of handsomely glazed windows; several beautifully placed bay windows, three sets of massive French doors opening onto terraces from the drawing-room and library, which bordered several interestingly designed gardens. There were peaked roofs, several cut brick chimneys and a delightfully odd jutting brick design that ran across the front of the house between the second and third floors.

As old as his surroundings were, Uncle Henry’s penchant for gadgets provided those who lived and worked on the property with the luxury of all the modern conveniences of the time. His great love of gardening also added to the beauty of the grounds, even if they were a little neglected at times, with colorful tulips, by the hundreds, blooming every spring in grand profusion along the long drive and within the confines of the garden beds.

Granted, the majority of the gardens had been allowed to run slightly amuck over the last decade, due to the death of Mrs. Lovelle’s beloved husband Albert, who had been the gardener for nearly forty years, and Sir Henry’s preoccupation with business pursuits, but the beauty was there all the same. It just needed the judicious jab of a sharp trowel or a solicitous shove of a shovel to bring it back to its former grandeur.

The interior of this unconventional home had been lavishly decorated in a manner that was inviting and comfortable, rather than formal and off-putting. Every nook and cranny enticed family and visitors alike to stop, read, investigate collections, or enjoy a cup of tea while looking onto the grounds from one of the many windows that lined every exterior wall of the main floor.

An unconventional estate that Cilly loved with every fiber of her being.

If Cilly remembered correctly, Uncle Henry had also kept a very diverse group of animals on the property or had when she was young, with cows being the largest members of this eccentric family. They were always Jerseys. He said he had chosen this breed because of their gentle nature, inquisitive character, small size and doleful brown eyes. He also thought they were beautiful animals and enjoyed watching them graze the fields. There were never more than three at a time, a number he thought suitable for keeping each other company and a number easily maintained on a physical and medical level as well. They were always named: Lilly, Tulip (of course), and Hortense. To Uncle Henry’s way of thinking, this gave him the advantage of always remembering their names.

These gentle bovines also gave him the perfect ruse for his pretense to the status of a gentleman farmer, a running joke between him and his cronies, and one he was always the first to laugh about. There were also any number of chickens with a strutting rooster on guard, enjoying the bugs and seeds available in abundance around the stables. His flock of feathered fowl also included several varieties of wild and domestic ducks and geese, all of which took advantage of the pond’s underwater bounty. Rounding out this mixture of farm animals were at least three or four dogs and as many stray cats as the mice and rats in the barn could feed. For Cilly, it had been Heaven.

She remembered idyllic summers running through the house chasing a dog or cat, an exercise that was always discouraged by her parents and scorned as unladylike by an always critical Nanny. The last dog she remembered playing and sleeping with was a scruffy terrier mix by the name of Dolly. She was a medium-sized specimen, with big brown happy eyes and a coat of creamy tan-colored hair that sprouted in great disarray over the entirety of her always wiggling, happily bouncing body. But no matter the breed or type of disposition, every dog was greatly loved by everyone in the house. They were always given the run of the premises, with a warm fluffy bed in every room, including the kitchen, where they and Mrs. Belinda Lindy Lovelle, Uncle’s excellent cook and much-beloved widow of Arthur, tested her excellent recipes.

But that was almost three decades ago now. Who knew what sorts of beasts were presently roaming the halls. Guess I’ll find out when I get there, she thought. Well, if nothing else, I will see the farm again, choose a memento or two and make arrangements with the solicitors to sell the remainder, if I’m given the honor, that is. If I know Uncle Henry, the only thing that will be worth anything will be the land. Imagining what she might find, she chuckled to herself. And, if my family is any indication of how money is managed, Uncle Henry will have left very little to help take care of the old place.

Oh, little did she know of her old relative and his ability to manage his estate and build his fortune. It was a misunderstanding that was about to be corrected in a very big and unexpected way.

Chapter 3

The next morning, after a poor night’s sleep, Cilly rode the train