ALSO BY THE AUTHOR
The Last Kashmiri Rose
Ragtime in Simla
The Damascened Blade
The Palace Tiger
The Bee’s Kiss
Tug of War
Folly du Jour
Strange Images of Death
The Blood Royal
Not My Blood
A Spider in the Cup
Copyright © 2014 by Barbara Cleverly
All rights reserved.
Published by Soho Press, Inc.
853 Broadway
New York, NY 10003
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Cleverly, Barbara.
Enter pale death / Barbara Cleverly.
HC ISBN 978-1-61695-408-6
PB ISBN 978-1-61695-617-2
eISBN 978-1-61695-409-3
1. Sandilands, Joe (Fictitious character)—Fiction.
2. Aristocracy (Social class)—England—Fiction.
3. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. 4. Family secrets—Fiction. I. Title.
PR6103.L48E58 2014
823’.92—dc23 2014019274
Interior design by Janine Agro, Soho Press, Inc.
v3.1
For Eleanor and Gordon
pallida mors aequo pulsat pede
pauperum tabernas regumque turris.
Pale Death comes knocking as loudly at the door of the poor man’s hovel as at the gates of the king’s castle.
—Horace, Odes, 1.4.13-14.
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
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
PROLOGUE
ENGLAND. APRIL 1933.
“Gingerbread? You’re sure it was gingerbread she asked for, Gracie?”
The odd request was the very last thing a housekeeper wanted to hear at this moment. Mrs. Bolton stood in the centre of the heaving kitchen overseeing her troops with a discipline firm enough to have impressed the Duke of Wellington himself. But, ever alert, the Iron Duke would, like her, have had his attention snagged by an unexpected detail.
“Don’t run!” Mrs. Bolton swept a teetering pile of dirty dishes from the hands of an exhausted fourteen-year-old kitchen maid, straightened them, waited until the girl was steady on her feet again and then handed them back. “Put these in the sink and go upstairs to bed, there’s a good girl. You’ve done well tonight, Elsie.” She turned her attention back to her ladyship’s maid. “Now, Grace. You see how we’re fixed. It’s half past eleven. Twelve sat down to dinner. Twelve have to be cleared up after. That’s before we start setting for breakfast. And you come swanning in here telling me her ladyship wants gingerbread served with her bedtime cocoa?”
The two women exchanged glances. They were getting dangerously near to implying criticism of the mistress. The other servants were bustling a little less noisily. Mrs. Bolton sensed that ears were being cocked in her direction and she finished diplomatically: “You must have misheard, Gracie. She doesn’t eat gingerbread. Take her a slice of nice plain Victoria sponge if she’s still hungry. Can’t see why she would be—she cleared her plates as usual and had a second helping of Pavlova pudding.”
Grace smiled and shook her head. “No, no, Mrs. Bolton. She was very particular. Just tell me if you’ve got gingerbread in the pantry and I’ll do the tray myself. I won’t get in your way.”
Mrs. Bolton led her over to the larder. “If you’re sure then. But I warn you—the mistress can’t abide anything spicy.”
“Ah … women can change their minds sometimes, you know. And their fancies,” Grace confided. “For undisclosed reasons.”
“Oh, ho! So that’s how it is!” Rolling eyes and a quick intake of breath indicated that enlightenment had struck the housekeeper. “It’s true then, the murmurings I’ve heard? Well I never! You and she have kept that one dark, Gracie! I doubt even the master knows his good news. Is that so?”
“Shh! I’ve no idea what you’re on about Mrs. B. We don’t want to spread silly rumours do we? Now if you’ll …?”
“You’ll find some in the Jubilee biscuit tin behind the pantry door. I keep it for the servants’ tea. It’s a bit stale, but if I’m guessing right and this is by way of being a craving, she probably won’t notice. I’ve known fancies for stranger things than stale gingerbread at midnight. Oh, and by the way …” Mrs. Bolton wiped all expression from her face as she added, “Bearing all in mind … she might like to hear that the master has retired to the snooker room with Master Alexander and the other gentlemen and two bottles of his best Napoleon brandy. It looks like being a long session. She should have an untroubled evening.”
“Just for once, she’ll be glad of that,” Grace replied, winking.
The housekeeper smiled. Grace Aldred was always quick on the uptake and discreet with it. The very best lady’s maid you could hope for. Mrs. Bolton thanked her lucky stars for Gracie, who covered as best she could for the inadequacies of a not universally popular mistress. Her ladyship couldn’t always—in fact, couldn’t often—be depended on to make good decisions, but in this case she’d done the right thing in offering the delicate and demanding post to what you might call a “home-grown” girl off the estate. Not like the personal attendants the lady guests had brought with them for this house party weekend. A heap of trouble they were! Demanding fusspots, hating each other, hating being cooped up together in the country in unseasonably Arctic conditions. Unlike their ladies who, for the most part, were as good as gold and content to gossip in corners over their embroidery.
Except for the fifth female guest. The one who’d arrived late. She’d turned up by taxi all the way from Cambridge, if you please. Gadding about the country like some Zuleika Dobson! Who on earth was she? No one seemed to know.
“No friend of the mistress, that little Miss Mystery,” the footman had reported knowingly when called on to shed some light on the problem at the end of dinner. Leaning close to ladle out the soup, the footmen were always the first to assess relationships and get a breath of scandal. “You’re wrong about that, Mrs. Bolton. At each other’s throats through the last four courses, they were! All her ladyship’s fault—you know what she’s like. Did her best to bomb the poor little person out of her trench. But when she finally managed it between the sole and the cutlets, she wished she hadn’t! Got as good as she gave! Better! But watch out—you wouldn’t want to get caught between those two. Trouble! With a bit of luck, the lassie will pack her traps and buzz off back to Cambridge before we get to the hair-tugging and eye-scratching.”