Death at Arbours

By Marie Wagner Krenz

Death at Arbours tells the story of Emily Clayton who spent her childhood in an orphanage in London where for undisclosed reasons, she was never adopted. When Emily's marriage takes her to the United States, she remains there when her young husband dies mysteriously. After years of indecision, she finally returns to England to seek her parentage. Her search leads to a wealthy but reclusive London family who invites her to their country estate, Arbours, where she finds the answers to her quest but nearly loses her life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 22, 2014
• ISBN: 9781493158652

Book preview

Prologue

No one was forcing Emily to go. She could still stay in Carson City, working in the capitol and enjoying life.

But she wouldn’t back out now. It had been too difficult to make the decision to return to England, something she should have done long ago instead of living so many years of uncertainty. That afternoon when the plane leaves, Emily Clayton would be on it.

As if to underline her resolution, she snapped open her suitcase. She was tempted to throw in the garments that were piled on her bed, but old habits intervened, and she placed like items in special sections of her bag and stuffed tissue paper into the toes of her shoes. She was probably packing too much, but if this thing took longer than a few weeks she would need extra clothes. The doorbell rang, and Emily opened the door for Alvina, her cleaning lady.

Hello, Mrs. Clayton, Alvina said. She was middle-aged with tightly permed gray hair and glasses. I brought up your mail from the lobby. I was afraid you might’a gone.

Thank you, Alvie, she said, taking the stack. I don’t leave for a couple of hours yet, but I’ll stay out of your way. Why don’t you start in the bedroom. I’ll be in the kitchen for now.

It was time for a break and a cup of coffee, but first Emily glanced at the mail. One letter, a few last-minute bills that would require immediate attention, half a dozen pieces of junk mail, and a battered package.

Back in the kitchen with a light meal before her, she turned her attention to the mail. The circulars went into the trash, the bills to one side, and the letter to be savored with her coffee. The package was intriguing.

Addressed to Emily, the return read simply, British Tourist Travel Packet. No street or box number, just the title and typed at that. As she tore off the wrappings, Emily wondered how they had gotten her name. Probably from the airline, or even from the hotel. Lying on top of a one-pound box of candy were several brochures for London sightseeing, the kind one can pick up in any travel bureau. The container was badly crushed from its journey in a crowded mail bag, and the chocolates inside had not fared well.

Too bad, she thought. She would have liked to pass on the box to genial Mr. Potts, the manager of her living complex, but the candies looked anything but appetizing, all smashed and gummy in their frilled paper cups. If she were not allergic to chocolate, she might have tried one anyway, but as it was, the box would go out with the trash.

Emily refilled her cup and tore open her letter. It was from a dear friend in San Francisco.

Dear Emily,

After we talked the other night, my niece, Christie Chandler, called to say that she was leaving for London this weekend to do research for her doctorate in English Literature. Although she’ll have a flat for the semester, she’ll be at a hotel for the first few days. I took the liberty of giving her your address. I know you will remember her as a child when we used to visit you. She has grown into a delightful young woman, and you might enjoy having lunch or dinner together. Meanwhile, good luck in your quest.

Warm best wishes,

Janet

Alvina finished about a half hour before Emily was to leave for the airport. Emily gave her a check and watched as the woman went into the service porch to pick up the old newspapers for the recycling bins downstairs.

Take that candy box as well, please, Emily said. It’s too crushed to be any good.

Alvina nodded and added it to the pile of papers. Have a good trip now, she said.

A few weeks later Emily would call Mr. Potts to tell him that she planned to extend her stay in England. Only then would she learn that Alvina’s neighbor had found her dead, lying on the floor, on the night of Emily’s departure.

Chapter 1

Greens Hotel looked a hundred and fifty years old and probably was. Three aged houses had long ago been joined to form one hostelry now painted a rich chocolate brown and displaying the Union Jack over the entrance.

As the doors of the diminutive elevator clattered open, Emily stepped out into the small, wood-paneled lobby. She felt excited and expectant, anxious to venture outside where a hospitable London waited. She wandered back and forth and glanced about to see if a young woman answering Christie’s description had come in. She turned just in time to see her arrive.

There you are, Emily said. She hugged Christie, then stood back to look at her. Christie was tall and slender with brown eyes and short, curly auburn hair. I can’t believe you’re old enough to be off on your own, working on an advanced degree.

I’m twenty-three. Christie laughed and returned the embrace. It’s wonderful to see you again.

A few minutes later, the two women were seated in the lounge being served tea. Each table was covered with white linen and held tiered plates of tiny sandwiches, each no larger than a bite. Waiters moved silently among the patrons, pouring tea and offering trays of pastries.

I’m so glad Janet got us together, Emily said. Meeting a friend in a foreign country makes it much more pleasant—especially the first weekend.

It’s fun for me too, Christie agreed and wiped her fingers on the starched napkin. I’m glad my aunt likes to arrange things, especially seeing you again. How was your trip? Any delays?

Emily frowned at the mention of her flight. No delays, but they lost my luggage, and I still don’t have it. Thank heavens I had a few things in my carry-on. If it doesn’t show up today, I’ll have to go shopping.

Christie lifted a cucumber sandwich from the tray, then stopped before taking a bite. But this isn’t a foreign country for you. All those years when you came to see us, I thought of you as that nice English lady.

Somewhere in her mid-forties, Emily Clayton had gray-spattered dark hair, a pink and white English complexion, and only the barest tracery of lines around her wide gray eyes. She had an aura of intelligence and quality, well-deserved by years of night classes which had led to a responsible position in the Nevada governor’s office. She looked smart and self-assured, but troubled eyes belied her appearance.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been in London—twenty-five years at least. But tell me what you’ll be studying and where will you do your research.

At the British Museum but mostly at the library, Christie replied, a smile showing her pleasure. It would take years to get through even part of those manuscripts, but I’ll do what I can. The university found an exchange flat for me, and I’ll be moving in on Monday. The owner is away for a few months. His brother called to say he’d bring me the keys tonight, and, she paused, he sounds rather nice. Then she turned to Emily. Are you on a vacation?

No. Emily stopped for a moment wondering whether to continue. Then she said in her no-nonsense, unmistakably British accent, It’s not a vacation. I’ve come to find my mother.

Christie looked at her in surprise. What do you mean, find your mother?

Emily made up her mind then and looked at her young companion. I’ve known your family a long time, Christie, so I’m going to tell you my story. It’s something very emotional, that I find difficult to talk about. Pour out some tea. We may be here a while, but I’m afraid you’ll think this is some insipid Victorian novel.

When the tea was replenished, Emily stirred sugar into the cup but remained silent so long that she felt Christie’s questioning eyes upon her. Finally she spoke. I was placed in a London orphanage as a baby and stayed until I was eighteen.

Eighteen! Christie said. I can’t believe you were there that long.

I was never adopted. Other children were but never me.

Christie looked at her earnestly. Anyone would have wanted you. You are still beautiful.

Emily smiled briefly, then stared off into nothing and remembered. As a little one I was sure my turn would come, but as the years passed, I began to accept that I would never have a family of my own. No one ever told me. I just knew. It was a lonely childhood, and until now I haven’t been able to face stirring up my past. It’s too painful.

Christie seemed not to know what to say, then asked, How will you go about it? Do you go to the police, or the city hall, or what?

I wrote to St. Elizabeth’s, the orphanage, and received an invitation to tea. The letter is in my suitcase, but I know the appointment is for tomorrow at four o’clock. This time excitement brimmed in her words. They surely can tell me something. At least they should be able to explain why I was never adopted. She was relieved to have told Christie but now wanted to drop the subject. Let’s talk about something else and have one more cup of tea.

The two women renewed their friendship and discussed their plans for the coming weeks. When the last cookie was eaten, they rose and were walking through the lobby when a clerk signaled Emily to approach the desk. He handed her an envelope.

This message came for you, Mrs. Clayton, he said, and, by the way, you will be happy to know that your luggage has arrived.

Emily looked puzzled, then took out the slip of paper and read it. I can’t believe this, she said, almost to herself.

What’s wrong? Christie asked.

Emily stared down, and then looked at her friend. They’ve cancelled my invitation. I’m not to go tomorrow. All vitality left her.

What do you mean, you’re not to go? Christie asked.

Emily handed her the paper. Here, read it yourself.

Christie did, and irritation rose in her voice. They can’t do this. You’ve come all this way, and they tell you not to come? You’re not going to let this stop you, are you?

Emily shook her head, trying not to show her disappointment. What else can I do? I should never have come. It was probably a bad idea all along.

Christie put both hands on Emily’s shoulders and looked into her eyes. You have to go. If you leave now, you’ll never forgive yourself. She seemed undecided for a moment, then said, Look, I’ll go with you.

Emily went up to her room with a leaden heart. She was not welcome at the orphanage, and now she would never learn anything about her past. Christie was a dear to offer to go with her, but it all seemed pointless.

She pushed open the door of her room and saw that her luggage had indeed arrived from the airport. At least something had worked out.

She wondered about the exact wording of the invitation. As she recalled, there was no ambiguity. She was to be there at the specified time, and that was that. Just to be sure, she pressed the catch of her suitcase and lifted the lid. She reached into the back pocket for the envelope she had placed there. Her hand found nothing but a small jewelry case. She pulled back the elasticized netting to look more closely. The letter was not where she had put it.

She remembered placing it there, but perhaps it had fallen out. She looked at the body of the suitcase. Maybe she imagined it, but it looked different than when she had packed. The stack of lingerie, though still neat and well aligned, was on the right when Emily was sure she had placed it on the left. A pile of blouses now lay there. She began to think she was having memory problems but decided to blame it on jet lag. She felt down the sides of the bag, her fingers meeting emptiness. The invitation was not there.

For the moment it was all too much. She was still tired from the long flight, the emotion of her quest, and now the unexpected cancellation of her visit to the orphanage.

She sat down to catch her breath and looked about her room, but she couldn’t sit there all evening. She’d have a shower, put on her pajamas, and write a few postcards. At that point she had no desire for food, but perhaps a little later she’d order something from room service.

She luxuriated in the comfort of the hot water and somehow managed the strange spray contraption that the hotel provided. Warm and dry and wrapped in the heavy white bathrobe from the closet, Emily moved again to her suitcase to find her slippers. She reached inside the first one to extract the wad of tissue paper she had placed in the toe. It was not there. Once again she began to question her memory and quickly reached for the other slipper. She felt a hard mass in the toe and slipped in her hand. It was not tissue but a crumpled sheet of stationery. She unfolded the paper and pressed it flat to see what it was.

Without warning, she gasped as a tight ball formed in the pit of her stomach. It was the invitation to tea at St. Elizabeth’s.

Chapter 2

Emily awoke to the certain knowledge that someone had gone through her luggage. She had read newspaper accounts of thievery by baggage handlers in airports, and this was probably what happened. Nothing was missing, but whoever did it must have examined her shoes as possible hiding places for valuables.

The crumpled invitation was the big question. Was it a handy replacement for the tissue or could someone be sending her a message? She discarded that thought as illogical and improbable. Still, it was troubling.

She dragged herself out of bed and moved to the windows to pull back the curtains. The sight of the quiet English morning brought with it a sense of excitement. After all the years of waiting, it had begun—what she had wanted more than anything in her life.

In the next moment, she wondered if she was a fool to lay herself open to pain. How had her young friend talked her into going where she wasn’t wanted?

Emily said little on the ride to St. Elizabeth’s, and now she was silent, staring at the site of her dismal youth—a grim pile of bricks surrounded by a high wall. No tree or flower relieved its unrelenting ugliness. She felt a chill for the children who lived there and for herself and the isolation of her childhood.

She took herself in hand enough for a terse comment. Now you can see why I detested the idea of coming. As much as I wanted to know my ancestry, I couldn’t bear to set eyes on this place again.

Christie did not reply, probably deciding that to agree would only make Emily feel worse. She waited while Emily paid the cabbie, and before they started up the walk, Emily stopped. They may slam the door in my face. I should have called to tell them we’d be coming.

Like the last time? Christie asked. It would only give them another chance to tell you to stay away. Then she turned to Emily. I have an idea. For some reason they don’t want you here, so why don’t I give my name and ask to see the nun in charge? I bet we’d get in. Anyway, that cancellation may have been a mistake.

Emily sighed. She didn’t think it was a mistake. All right, let’s try it your way. Despite her anxiety, she could see that Christie was enjoying the intrigue.

The massive front door seemed to glower at them, but Emily bit her lip and jabbed the bell. It must have rung deep within the building because they could hear nothing from outside.

After long minutes, the door opened slowly to reveal a woman in a plain dark suit. Her hair was simply cut and she wore no makeup. Emily had expected someone in the enveloping habit and wimple, until she remembered that with the advent of Pope John XXIII, most nuns had moved out of the Middle Ages.

Good morning, Sister, Christie said. My name is Christiana Chandler, and I’d like to speak to the Reverend Mother, please.

May I ask the purpose of your visit? the woman asked.

It’s confidential, she temporized.

The sister nodded and held open the door. Please wait here, she said, pointing to a bench, and glided off down the hall as silently as if she were encased in the many layered habit of old.

See, Christie said, what did I tell you? I knew we’d get in.

Emily said, We’re not there yet. She doubted that they would get any farther and almost wished she could run out the door.

Sitting on the unyielding pewlike seat, the two women looked about. No carpet warmed the linoleum floors, and the only adornment of the gray plastered walls was a large reproduction of the Sacred Heart. An institutional odor permeated the reception area, causing Emily to wrinkle her nose. Dear God, it even smells the same.

Where are the children, Christie asked, or is this only for administration?

Emily shuddered and shook her head. My guess is the children are in classes—even though it’s Saturday morning. We were never allowed in this part of the convent. It was sacrosanct, but as you can see, she added, we didn’t miss much.

The sister returned as quietly as she had gone. Reverend Mother will see you now, she announced in a subdued voice. This way, please.

She opened a door and led them down a long shadowy corridor to stop at one particular room where a crucifix guarded the portal. She knocked gently, then opened the door and left without further comment.

The Reverend Mother, also dressed in a plain dress of the emancipated, was probably twenty years older than the nun who had admitted them. She, however, wore a short black veil on the back of her gray hair, and her sharp, watchful eyes stared at them. The office was as bare as the entry, furnished only with two straight chairs for visitors and a clean-topped desk behind which the nun sat waiting, her hands folded in her lap. She did not rise but acknowledged them with a slight nod.

Chilled, Emily wondered why she should feel so apprehensive. She was a grown woman, not a child. It was strange, she thought, that thrust back into this setting, all her childhood insecurities returned.

Good morning, her companion said. I’m Christiana Chandler and this is my friend, Emily Clayton.

A flash of recognition crossed the nun’s face, to be replaced by an expression of sadness. I tried to stop your coming, Mrs. Clayton, she said, looking straight at Emily. Your appointment was cancelled.

Suddenly tongue-tied, Emily turned in alarm to Christie who nodded encouragement. It was eerie to be once again in the place of her remembered misery, to re-experience the intimidation of an all-powerful Reverend Mother. She was once again the lonely child who saw no hope of leaving those gray walls, the little one who believed no one wanted her, that no one would ever want her. Caught in the emotion of the moment, she had to force herself to respond. Reverend Mother, she said, I must speak to you.

I can assure you, the nun said, not unkindly, "we have nothing