Thorns and Roses of Greyfield: A Novel

By Katherine M Welch

Caroline Carlyle is a self-assured young woman whose everyday life is turned upside down in the aftermath of a shocking murder. During a much-anticipated dinner party at the Lamar's—the most prominent family in town and the caretakers of the grand Greyfield Estate and House—she makes the acquaintance of Oliver Belmont. But when Mr. Belmont is murdered the very same night, her own life and surety are thrown into disarray. The death and the questions surrounding it create turmoil in town, triggering both fear and anger. Caroline is swept into the mystery and drama, which leaves her shaken, confused, and even ashamed as more and more comes to light.
Mr. Belmont's death and the resulting revelations reshape Caroline's perception of her formerly peaceful world, especially when she cannot help but delve deeper into the events surrounding the murder. As the investigation develops, so do her struggles with the marks it has left on her and the people around her. A mysterious murder is no more straightforward, it seems, than what such an event leaves in its wake. Thorns and Roses of Greyfield is a compelling story of murder in the high society of Nova Scotia, but along with the excitement and elegance of a well-spun period drama run deeper themes of tragedy, humanity, and how they intertwine.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorLoyalty
• Release date: Sep 6, 2021
• ISBN: 9781632695352

Book preview

Chapter 1

Greyfield Valley, Nova Scotia, 1933

It was a cold December morning. The symphonies of the streets were the sounds of streetcars, the click of my heels on the bricked pavement, the caroling children on the street corner, and the bells from the faraway docks.

I walked briskly and smiled at the few I passed whom I knew and waved at the one who was my close friend.

Hello, Willoughby! I shouted. He returned the wave and smiled from the other side of the street. I continued my journey home, not deviating from my routine collection of the morning mail.

I heard my name called, or at least I thought I had, but with the busyness of the streets around me, perhaps I imagined it. Shivering with cold, I quickened my pace. There it was again. This time, I distinctly heard my name called.

Caroline, I was just thinking of you. The voice was instantly familiar to me, and reluctantly I turned and faced my addresser.

How I wish you wouldn’t do that, I replied. There he stood, Peter Gregory Doyle of Chadwick and Doyle. He, of course, thought I meant his presence startled me, but that was not my meaning. Do not misunderstand. Peter was a kind man, a good man. Nonetheless, he had an infinite capacity for endless, often idle, conversation.

Good morning, he said. I see you’ve got your mail. Should be something in there from the Lamars. They’re having a dinner party Friday.

I looked through the few envelopes and found the invitation. You’re going? I asked.

Yes, of course, he replied. It was a pointless question, really. Should be a nice time. He thrust his gloved hands into his coat pockets. I trust I’ll see you there. I hardly get to see Mrs. Abercrombie socially anymore. But I’ve been quite busy lately.

Yes, well, that’s understandable. I’m sure Granny will look forward to catching up with you as well. But really, Peter, I must head home now.

Oh, that’s right, you have a guest at home, don’t you? Well, my friend, don’t you worry. I am just on my way to Mrs. Hardy’s. I can drop you right off. She’s practically your closest neighbor. He took my elbow and walked me to his car. I knew arguing with him would be pointless, so I acquiesced to his offer, although I would have preferred him asking me what I wanted.

You’re not still making house calls? I said as we drove. He nodded.

Mrs. Hardy has to have things a certain way, you know. And really, she’s quite easygoing compared to some. Did you know that in America, there is a lady who must have all of her finances done by her attorney…and then copied by her assistant because she can’t stand her attorney’s handwriting? He laughed. And so, like all conversations with Peter, it went on and on and on, until he left me safely at my driveway gate and waved goodbye.

I turned the large old knob of Brusselton and felt the aliveness of the house. I instinctively walked to the breakfast room. There, I found the two I had abandoned early that morning when I left for the morning post. Granny sat at the table with her steeping tea and poached eggs, then across from her, my guest—Patricia May Bentley. She had arrived half a week prior in search of escapism from the plague of writer’s block. Brusselton was, indeed, an ideal retreat to find inspiration. She couldn’t help but find her muse surrounded by the five acres of beautiful land and the generous-sized, old-fashioned house. The exterior was faced with stone, and the inside filled with antiques and cozy chairs to curl up in. Patricia had ideal surroundings, but she had not yet experienced a cure to her writer’s ailment.

Patty poured her coffee as I entered. Morning greetings were exchanged, and I sat down.

I thought I heard you when you left this morning, Caroline, Granny said. It was later than usual. Did you run back and forth today? Granny had never approved of my morning walks to collect the mail. Too much exercise or something.

I wish I’d have thought of that, I joked. No, Peter Doyle drove me back, and we talked of dull things the whole way.

Well, that was nice of him, said Granny.

Patty looked on curiously as we spoke.

It was nice of him, yes. I knew my voice sounded flat.

I take it this Peter person isn’t terribly interesting, commented my friend.

You may have the opportunity to judge for yourself soon, I told her as I reached for the pile of mail. I handed the invitation to Granny.

A Lamar dinner party. Now this will give you something to write home about, Patty, said Granny as she read the card through her pince-nez.

I buttered my toast liberally. "The Lamars, you see, practically own the town. They are the family of Nova Scotia. If there’s a reason the town is filled with constant visitors, the Lamars are it. Rich beyond belief. They throw the most exquisite dinners in their home, at Greyfield House." I took a bite of toast.

Murder! You mean that great big castle! she asked.

I nodded and smiled at her exaggeration. I’ll give Charlotte a ring and let her know you’ll be coming,

Ought you to do that? she asked me.

Oh goodness, yes. Believe me, with the number of guests there will be there, one more won’t make the slightest difference.

The upcoming event gave me the opportunity to furnish my friend with an appropriate wardrobe for the occasion. I insisted on a trip to the dressmaker downtown. Granny stayed home; she later had a luncheon appointment at Greyfield House. Since we only had the one car, Patty and I were dropped off at the dressmaker’s by Lester, who left us and attended to Granny.

The Clarkson Dress and Alterations Shoppe was small, but quality was never sacrificed. I went there for nearly all my wardrobe needs, and I was never left wanting.

The bell on the door chimed when we opened it and entered the front of the shop. The windows were cleaned spotlessly every day; the linens on the tables were pressed and pristine; the mannequins were well dressed and accessorized; and the flowers on the counter filled the room with freshness. Behind the counter was the fair, young Rosemarie. She looked up to us with her light brown eyes. Her thin lips, which usually featured a youthful smile, only curved a bit in greeting.

Hello, Rosemarie. How nice to see you again, I addressed her.

She smiled timidly, nodded with unfocused eyes, and said, It has been a while, hasn’t it?

Why, you’ve grown into a very handsome lady. That was the truth. She was a very pleasant looking girl of about seventeen. Her form was no longer skinny but appropriately slender. She was no beauty, mind you, but her features were simple and attractive.

I introduced her to my friend and presented her with our search.

Something dinner-party worthy, you know, I added. Though she responded to everything I said and asked, there was something in her manner that prevented social ease. However, when I asked her to recollect a certain dress I was once interested in, the task of scouring through memories put her at ease.

Oh yes, I remember. It’s just in the back. I’ll go fetch it. She smiled like her normal self and left the room. I was sure this particular dress would be well suited to Patty.

Almost as soon as Rosemarie departed, the door chime once again sounded at the entrance of a customer. A man walked in whom I had never seen before. I considered him not a tall man, nor a short one. His age was, from what I assumed, about forty-five. His head was still generously filled with slightly greying hair, and his face was in the beginning stages of that horrid invasion, which every person dreads—slight wrinkles. I thought he must have certainly been an attractive man in the height of his youth. He wore a warm smile and was as kind as would be expected from a stranger. We conversed casually on general subjects until he finally introduced himself as Oliver Belmont.

I’m here to take care of some business with my client—perhaps you’ve heard of him—Alain Lamar, he said. I smiled with a nod.

Yes, I am good friends with the Lamar family.

Ah, then you’ll probably be at the dinner on Friday.

Why yes.

Splendid. We’ll be seeing more of each other then.

Rosemarie quickly reentered the room with the frock in her hand. This is it, isn’t it, Miss Carlyle?

Then her smile disappeared just as hastily as she had returned. Whatever light spirits she had gained were doused and consumed by sudden timidity. Her countenance suffered immediate change to one of remorse. I furrowed my brow, but all I conjectured was that she was unwell. I took the frock and thanked her.

Yes, this is the dress. Rosemarie, is everything…?

Mr. Clarkson’s entrance interrupted my inquiry. He greeted us with kindness and civility, then noticed Mr. Belmont.

Rosemarie, why have you left this gentleman unattended? Why didn’t you call me? asked the girl’s father.

Rosemarie made no reply. Quickly, she excused herself and hurried away to the back, where she said she had work to do.

Mrs. Clarkson! Mr. Clarkson called. My apologies, sir, what can I do for you?

Mrs. Clarkson, a middle-aged, rather bulky woman, walked in with a smile in her eyes. A brief introduction was made before she apologized for Rosemarie’s abandonment.

She hasn’t been herself lately, she spoke quietly. I exchanged looks with my friend.

What do you mean? I asked.

Well, it’s been since Mr. Clarkson and I got back from New Brunswick yesterday. She’s been awfully distracted, quiet, and sort of short. Forgetting things I tell her. Except for now, when I guess she’s finally remembered I asked her to go over back inventory. But look, she leaves customers unattended. This subject piqued my interest, but I pried no further.

Oh, that’s all right. I’m sure she’ll be back to her old self in no time. You know how girls are at her age, I said with the intention of giving comfort.

Once our business at the shop was concluded, Patty and I walked along the road for a while. It was Patty’s idea to stop for a sandwich and soda at the drugstore. We sat at the bar near the entrance. Patty ordered for us both.

Two ham and cheese on whatever’s best, with vanilla ice cream sodas to match. I looked at her with concern. She had glanced around the whole room, from side to side, with a smile, then to me.

Oh, don’t worry, vanilla goes with everything. Then she continued her observation of the place. In a corner booth sat a few construction workers; down the bar a man read the newspaper, and just behind us sat a lady and a child. Mr. Mills, the lean, elderly druggist, brought our orders. Patty smiled and quickly rubbed her hands together.

Thanks, cookie! she said. Mr. Mills smiled with a nod.

Where’s Daisy today, Mr. Mills? I asked.

Oh, she’s here. She’s in the back helping me clean up. You know, there was a break-in last night. The old gentleman looked at us through his round spectacles. He habitually wiped the counter in front of him after he spoke. He seemed eager to continue describing what had happened.

Murder! A break-in! That’s horrid! said Patty as she stirred her shake with the straw.

Oh, it was just a break-in, miss. Thankfully, nobody was here, he replied. Patty giggled a little under her breath. Obviously, he didn’t know the exclamation Murder was slang for Wow these days.

But did they take anything? I asked.

Haven’t had time for a complete inventory yet, but there’s definitely some cyanide, a strychnine-based tonic, morphine, and—

Murder! Patty exclaimed again.

A light seemed to go on in Mr. Mills’s eyes.

Oh! I see. It’s an interjection! he said with happy realization.

That’s right, cookie! Patty said.

The man chuckled as he returned to his duties.

"Well, well, twice in one day. What have I done to deserve this?" asked a lighthearted voice behind me.

Precisely what I’m asking myself now. I turned and smiled at Peter, who had left a booth near the back. Patty turned and studied him. He noticed and gave her a hello.

Hi there, she said, grinning.

I cleared my throat. Patty, this is Peter Doyle. Peter, this is our guest for the holidays, who I believe I’ve mentioned to you once or twice before—Patricia Bentley from Vermont.

Oh, and I’ve heard about you, said Patty. "You’re a very successful attorney just promoted to partner, if I’m not mistaken. You’re also a very close friend of the Lamar family, and you have a cat." She opened her handbag. Peter stood next to her with his elbow on the counter and his chin on his fist.

A cat? Bosh, Peter doesn’t have a cat, I said. Where on earth did you get such an idea?

You’re wrong; I do have a cat. Well, sort of. She kind of adopted me. But how did you know? he asked.

Patty finally located what she searched for in her bag and wiped her nose with a handkerchief. Don’t look at me like I’m some kind of genius or anything. There’s a bunch of fur on your coat sleeve, and I’ve suddenly gotten the sniffles.

Peter was amused and stepped back. I’m sorry. And I am very happy to meet you, Miss Bentley.

Likewise, she replied and sneezed.

What do you make of what happened last night? I feel so bad, I asked as I gestured toward the back. He folded his arms and shook his head.

It’s a shame. Poor old Mills. Most likely some neighborhood kids looking for a little fun. I hear Staff Sergeant Willoughby was here investigating early this morning.

Good. He’ll get to the bottom of it before long, I’m sure.

Well, ladies, this is the end of my lunch hour. I should get back. It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss Bentley. Peter smiled broadly.

We replied with farewells and be seeing you, cookies, and he departed.

I’d endure hours of pointless conversation with him, Patty said, sighing as if Peter were a movie star. "Talk about the cat’s meow. I don’t know what you were complaining about. He’s handsome and a perfect gentleman."

I rolled my eyes in amusement. Being a gentleman doesn’t give him automatic claim to being interesting. And anyway, he was James’s pal before James moved away. I can’t seem to get him out of the ‘brother’s friend’ category. I sipped my cold vanilla shake that was no comfort to my cold body, but which was, to my surprise, a nice partner to my sandwich.

Caroline, beautiful people like that don’t need to be interesting. Don’t you know anything? She shook her head and tutted. It’s a privilege for average people like me just to be able to study them. Objects of admiration. Nothing you’d reach out and touch, no.

Goodness, Patty, don’t be ridiculous. I laughed.

Chapter 2

Brusselton’s main dining area was large, and it was there we ate dinner. The table was set modestly but with pristine care. Madge, our live-in maid, served us under the supervision of Wilcox, our devoted butler. Each course, however few or many, always came at precise intervals. The menus were usually preapproved by either Granny or me (that was how Granny liked it), and they were always prepared by Mrs. Wilcox. Granny dressed for dinner as a rule, but I had adopted the blasphemous habit of wearing whatever it was I had on during the day. This, only very slightly, bothered Granny.

I should have been back sooner this afternoon, but Vivian was in an insatiably talkative mood, said Granny as we started the soup course.

That’s Mrs. Lamar, I told Patty, then turned to Granny with a sympathetic smile. I’m sorry.

Told me about every dinner guest and all of their relations, I daresay, she continued. "Oh! And I forgot to