Murder at the Manor: The Lighter Side of Murder Series: Volume 1

By Laura Northup and Trutti Gasparinetti

Between cases, Emma Slayville remains prepared, keeping up with the latest methods of crime detection. Her major source of research: My Hundred Most Baffling Cases, by Chief Inspector Christopher Croy of the New Scotland Yard.
In Murder at the Manor, Emma is faced with more than the capture of an ordinary killer. Now surfaces the age-old problem of the Undead!
A busy week for Emma after encountering a corpse who sings and a butler whose skills are severely lacking.
This is the first in a series entitled The Lighter Side of Murder.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 22, 2008
• ISBN: 9781450080644

Laura Northup

Laura Northup: With the tireless guidance of Sharon Johnson, Mystery Professor at Marymount College, Laura has developed what might be described as a piquant approach to murder. “It’s usually such a downer, you know,” she is quoted as saying. Trutti Gasparinetti: Drawing comes as second nature to Trutti, constantly on the lookout for that face in the crowd that demands interpretation.

Book preview

With thanks to Sharon Johnson

and, of course,

To Big Al

CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter One

Was the weather turning threatening again wondered Anna, the austere, long-suffering housekeeper of Crazewell Manor.

It was nine at night when she slipped through the bedroom door of her young mistress in the lonely midst of Thornwood Forest. Yet another storm seemed imminent, what with the sudden howling of the wind. Would this be like the one last night—without rain, but just the loud and violent trappings of rolling thunder mixed with veined shafts of crackling light?

Time for your hot milk, Miss Edwina, she chirped half-heartedly to a prone figure on a brass bed by the far wall . . .

Anna’s scream hung in the thick air for a full five seconds. The ancient manor house, unused to this sort of disruption, seemed to tremble with the fearful decibel.

Hey! called the butler from the foot of the stairs. Hey!

Anna’s second screech drew Broadhurst up the steps, two at a time, to the bedroom where she now prepared to let loose again.

Her thin lips opened wide as she pulled in another lungful of fetid air. But, before a third shriek escaped her, he slapped a hand across her mouth, as she stared in horror at her mistress.

Edwina Crazewell lay in her bed, eyes wide open, looking at nothing in particular. Two trickles of blood, dry now, traced a crimson line behind one ear to the back of her neck, leaving a dark maroon stain on her white satin pillowcase. Edwina’s lips, parted slightly in surprise, revealed the tips of two perfectly matched porcelain-white front teeth. She’d been a young beauty, and so she was still, undiminished by tragic death at a mere twenty years of age.

Anna struggled to free herself from the butler’s powerful grip.

Wait! snapped Broadhurst. Listen!

In the deafening silence that followed, a thin stream of plaintive musical notes flowed forth from the direction of the pitiful victim.

* * *

Sheriff Brody had never lost that thirty pounds he’d gained after his marriage to Binny Tubwell, Graves End’s best baker. And he’d never bothered to alter the size of his uniform that pulled at every button of a drab brown jacket. This increased the confusion of his appearance. And to compound the impression, the left lapel was fastened one button higher than the right, and so on, all the way down.

Well, thought Emma, Graves End’s gray-headed unofficial detective, from where she sat on the front porch of her well-known green and white cottage. Judging by the look of poor Mr. Brody, the mystery he’s on to must be a stumper.

What sort of case have you brought me today? she asked the sheriff as he waded through the fallen autumn leaves that covered her fading lawn.

But how did you know?

What else would have preoccupied you to the extent that you are wearing one patent leather evening shoe and one ragged carpet slipper?

Well, you’re right on the money, as usual, he replied.

Please give me the details then, my dear.

You’re a wonder, Miss Slayville, if you don’t mind my saying.

Tut, tut, she said humbly.

The truth was, Emma had predicted this visit from Brody. There were two reasons why. The first was the arrival of a bat at her little garret bedroom window last night.

The second was the fitful slumber of her dog, Bones, and her cat, Ichabod, who had hissed in his sleep.

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Was the weather turning threatening again,

wondered Anna . . .

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Please give me the details . . .

Chapter Two

It’s this way then, Miss Slayville, Sheriff Brody began after a short pause used to pull his thoughts together. You may see from my haggard face that I didn’t sleep a single wink last night.

Yes, I’ve noted that.

Well, yesterday evening the doorbell rang. It was old Doc Drummond, retired, at the door. He didn’t make much sense, I can tell you. What I did understand was that he wanted me to come with him and that it had something to do with Miss Edwina Crazewell, the young heiress out at Crazewell Manor. Her housekeeper, Anna, had called him to say that her mistress was either in some kind of trance or else she was dead. You see, she seemed to be humming a little tune.

A tune! cried Emma, now at the very edge of her rocker. And what tune was it? This is extremely important, Sheriff Brody!

Well, none of us could make it out, not me nor the housekeeper nor old Doc, nor that new butler there. But we all agreed it was familiar.

Familiar! Now, one more question before you continue. Why did the housekeeper call on Doctor Drummond rather than Doctor Playfoul who has a flourishing practice quite close by to the Crazewell estate, if I’m not mistaken.

A falling out, some misunderstanding, as I was told by the housekeeper herself, said Sheriff Brody. I took the liberty of asking her. He smiled sheepishly.

Where is Miss Crazewell now?

Still in her bed as far as I know. Old Doc can’t figure out what to do with her.

Emma stood. Well, Mr. Brody, she said, it looks as though we’re on another case.

Inside, reaching for her handmade bluebell-embroidered murano-wool shawl, Emma shuddered. For, when she had opened My Hundred Most Baffling Cases by Chief Inspector Christopher Croy of the New Scotland Yard the previous evening, she had come upon The Case of the Vampire’s Curse!

* * *

Crazewell Manor was situated in the woods that bordered Graves End and Dangling Dell. So it took almost an hour for Sheriff Brody to drive Emma in his protesting hand-me-down 1963 Buick to that remote and forgotten-looking part of the world.

Two stone pillars marked the entranceway to a winding road bordered by heavy wild underbrush and towered over by ancient fir trees. Though ten a.m. by Emma’s railroad watch, the world here lay in a constant state of the darkest of nights. Sheriff Brody snapped on his headlights.

You’d think with all their money, the Crazewells’d get some gardeners on the property.

Actually, said Emma, poor Miss Crazewell is the last surviving member of the clan, isn’t she?

S’pose so, now you mention it, said Brody, now that news of her brother perishing in that rollercoaster crash came to her through last week’s mail. He was sort of a daredevil type was how I thought of him . . . ah, here we are.

A great stone house stared at them through large windows, dim lights glowing morosely through them in the eternal darkness of Thornwood Forest.

Stay here, Miss Emma, Brody said as he slipped from the car to climb the five steep stone porch steps.

He pulled a chain that rang a clanging bell somewhere inside.

Presently a young dark gentleman answered wearing the black uniform of a butler. He bowed them over the threshold.

Broadhurst at your service, he announced. Employed ’ere yesterday morning through the wishes of Miss Crazewell’s attorney, Josiah Battleby of Battleby, Battleby and Hogg.

How does it happen you are so free with unsolicited information? inquired Emma draping her shawl over his extended arm.

"Well Miss, and Sir, I knows you both by reputation, don’t I? And you would have asked me more sooner than later. Now ain’t I right? You’re the local snoop, Miss, if I has my information correct.

What’s that peculiar accent? asked Brody, assuming a sour expression. He wasn’t sure he cared for this overly familiar character.

Sir, I am a actual and bonafide servant, straight from London and the wery wenerable ’ouse of Lord and Lady Shuttleworth, both lately mysteriously deceased. I come over ’ere through the generous offices of Bigsby and Grimes Domestic Agency. References upon request.

Hmmm, said Brody noncommittally. Then he added, We may be wanting a look at those references. Just keep them handy.

As I say, sir, said Broadhurst with a nod and a distinct twinkle that struck Brody as insulting, upon request.

We wish to see Edwina Crazewell post haste! said Emma, derailing the conversation.

If you’ll be good enough to wait ’ere, said the butler, I’ll just fetch Anna, the ’ousekeeper. She’s in total charge of everything aside from butling.

Then please do so. Emma had dealt with many an impertinent servant before.

Broadhurst retreated through an open doorway at his right.

I don’t trust that one, said Brody, rubbing his chin as if to wipe away a minor blow. I think I’ll just have a look at those credentials of his.

Do, by all means, but my guess is you’ll find everything in order. Domestics from abroad are always considered superior, no matter how ill-bred.

Hm, said Brody.

Now, continued Emma, see how very Victorian this hallway looks. The original dark striped wallpaper and furnishings—heavy mahogany chairs and hatrack. I’ll bet nothing here has been changed in the past hundred or more years, well, maybe one thing. And look at this dust. She swiped a finger across a small table, leaving a streak along the surface. The housekeeping certainly doesn’t measure up.

I guess you’re right, but what difference does that make?

Well, does anything strike you as unusual in this setting?

I—I’m not sure where you’re headed. Brody looked around at the heavy furnishings.

There is no traditional hallway mirror, she observed. It must have been removed and replaced by that portrait of the Crazewell clan. I’d be willing to bet that beneath that picture there’s an age-old outline of such a mirror. You see, she continued after a short pause during which he stared at her in admiration, they say that vampires cast no image.

Vampires! Brody gurgled.

By the way, she shifted the subject now and strolled toward the center of the hallway, how long has it been since the death of Mrs. Catherine Crazewell and the subsequent incarceration of her husband Egbert Crazewell in Sappington’s high security mental institution?

Why, it’s easily two years, and maybe more. Brody shook his head now, thinking back to that awful day. That Egbert sure doted on the Mrs.

By all accounts he barely left her side through their twenty years of marriage, recalled Emma, peering under a corner of the oriental rug.

Obsession, concluded the sheriff.

Indeed, just the sight of her showing the gardener where to plant the azaleas . . . Emma shook her head sadly as she fumbled through a fern at the corner by the staircase. She recalled now the blaze of headlines for three full weeks in the local Sentinel. Even as far away as Babbitt the papers kept the bizarre murder case on their front pages.

Yes, when the trial ended, the jury found Egbert Crazewell guilty of murder in the second degree of his devoted wife, Catherine—not to mention the gardener

Well, it was a crime of passion, no doubt about it . . . observed Brody, adding, What are you doing, Miss Emma, if you don’t mind my asking?

One can never spend one’s time more beneficially than when searching for clues.

I’m a little vague on the details of Egbert and Catherine, continued Brody following Emma now. What exactly happened?

Well, as bad luck would have it, she said opening a desk drawer, and rifling with a forefinger, Egbert was just returning from his Wednesday afternoon archery lesson. This was one of the few things that could separate him from Catherine. But on seeing her with the gardener, Stephen Goodweather, bent over the mulch pile, Egbert shot them each with an arrow and covered them over, hoping they would end up fertilizing the hedge row.

How do you seem to know so much about it? Brody wondered.

I just happened to be a witness for the prosecution, having seen Mr. Crazewell at my archery lesson not twenty-five minutes before the fatal event . . . I might just add that it was through my efforts that Mr. Crazewell was sent to Stillwaters Mental Institution rather than the terrible alternative.

Prison, you mean?

Indeed.

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A great stone house stared at them through large windows . . .

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One can never spend one’s time more beneficially than when searching for clues.

And you think that case is connected to this one, don’t you, but I’d leave out that nonsense about the vampire.

We shall see, said Emma. That Broadhurst is certainly taking his time, isn’t he?

I remember now, said Brody. Egbert always was a bit ‘come-as-you-are’ in the mental department.

Yes, a fitting solution. A padded cell, some good mystery stories. What more could one ask, except for a few friends and a dog and cat.

What will old Crazewell do now his only daughter is out cold at the least, said Brody. I know she visited the old man every other week like clockwork.

No doubt he will run amok for a while. Don’t forget, he will also have to cope with the news of his poor son, observed Emma, poking her finger into a mousehole in the molding.

Chapter Three

As these facts coursed through the minds of Emma and Brody, they were suddenly interrupted by the appearance of Broadhurst and Anna who arrived via the staircase that most likely led to the bedrooms.

Sorry for the delay, Broadhurst explained, shuffling lightly down the steps. Couldn’t find the old girl.

Anna, worn and bowed by her many years of service, placed cautious feet upon each step behind the agile butler.

Forgive me, she said. I’ve been up all night with poor Edwina.

Oh yes, supplied Broadhurst, stopping on the bottom stair to utter his feelings. A sad business. But I say plough ’er under and there’s an end. Life goes on, I mean. No sense dwelling on depressing corpses, eh what?

But Edwina is alive! declared Anna.

Ah, that humming business, said Broadhurst. No doubt a post-mortem abnormality, easily explained by the old coroner, eh constable? He took the liberty of winking at the affronted Brody. Broadhurst dropped from the bottom step as Anna came up behind him.

Anna approached Emma. Already, it seemed, she’d learned to disregard the insensitive new fellow-domestic.

Oh, Miss Slayville, I know you by reputation, and you too, Sheriff Brody. Please, can you help? Poor Edwina’s like my very own daughter these past few years. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do . . . She broke off to apply a damp handkerchief to her nose . . . Please excuse, she said. I can’t seem to stop crying.

Tut, said Emma. If you’ll be kind enough to lead us to the girl’s bedroom, we shall certainly be able to gather suitable bits of information there.

Edwina lay in a four-poster bed with ivory satin sheets and a matching fine lace bedspread. The room was dark, owing to a large elm tree which blocked the light from her window. The atmosphere was somber, though Anna’s dusting skills were evident here. Not one dust bunny beneath the giant bed Emma noted from the top of the staircase through the bedroom door.

The girl appeared to be about nineteen or twenty. She was quite beautiful. Emma did note, however, a distinct difference in the length of her legs beneath the satin quilt. Edwina’s wavy brown hair was combed to cascade over her shoulders.

Indeed, thought Emma. She didn’t seem to be breathing. But, there was the merest tinge of color on those otherwise pale cheeks.

How often does she hum the tune? she asked of Anna, who stood behind her now.

Just every once in a while, every few hours.

We shall have to wait then, she said, pulling over a chair, I want to hear that melody.

Once seated around the bed, the group sat quietly for a moment. Then Emma turned to the butler.

Would it be possible Mr. Broadhurst, to prepare some finger sandwiches and camomile tea? We may have a long vigil here.

Actually, I was ’ired to butle, not mess about in kitchen matters, so in a word, no.

We need Anna with us to interpret any significant signs from our poor victim here, explained Emma patiently. If you’d be so good then, Mr. Broadhurst.

Not on your Nellie, declared he, crossing his arms in protest.

Then we shall have to do without, said Emma, turning back to the girl—though, she added, I shall be forced to notify Mrs. Bigsby of Bigsby and Grimes, a dear and valued friend, and inform her of her unfortunate choice in domestics . . .

Oh, keep your bloomers on then, grumbled Broadhurst, rising from his seat. I wasn’t serious, you know!"

* * *

Forty minutes later, he appeared in the doorway, holding a tray.

Well now, he snapped out abruptly, causing poor Anna to clutch at her heart.

Oh! she cried, Mr. Broadhurst, you frightened me so!

I can be a cat when I want to, he smiled. Now, sandwiches and tea all ’round. I did not take the liberty of including myself, but ’et a slice of sturgeon in the pantry.

Just set the tray here on the bedside table, said Emma, and you might want to allow your footsteps to be heard on the stairs next time before you go frightening people.

Are you trying to spoil my small allotment of fun on this job, Miss Slayville?

If you call scaring people fun . . .

Which I do, he said.

You’ll just have to use a little self-discipline, Mr. Broadhurst. And where did you spring from, by the way. I had my eyes on that staircase as you appeared from the left of the doorway—my left that is—your right.

Alternate staircase down the ’all. Leads up from the pantry at the back entrance. But don’t bother snooping there, Miss Slayville—the back door leads to nothing but the underbrush outside.

* * *

Before Emma, or anyone, had time to respond to Broadhurst’s latest brusqueness, two heads cleared the landing.

No one is manning the door! announced the female half of the ensemble. Anyone could just walk in.

As proved by you! said Broadhurst. And, who may I ask?

"And who may I ask," countered the battlement of a woman clad in a mattress-sized overcoat, as she gravitated toward the bedroom.

I, she announced, am family!

Not a Crazewell? asked Broadhurst, stepping jiffily inside to make way for the formidable matron.

Not a Crazewell, she affirmed proudly, but a Trevillian. Percy, Come here.

A foppish sort of milquetoast in slim black stovepipe sleeves and pant