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Chapter One CHAPTER ONE
Georgie wasn’t hysterical by nature, but four seemed like an awful lot of homicides.
“Don’t you think it’s becoming rather odd?” she asked Arthur as they stood amidst a small cluster of villagers outside Mr. Marble’s shop, watching as Constable Lexington led Mrs. Marble away. It was a sunny morning in May, the air mild and a bit damp from last night’s rain. The storefront bearing a hand—painted wooden sign reading the Marbled Cheese and a display of several wheels of Double Gloucester did not appear the likely location of a murder. There was a fair amount of shocked murmuring among the crowd, combined with the occasional dark mutter about always having suspected something was odd about Mr. Marble’s wife.
Arthur, who was watching the proceedings while jotting down notes on the pad he’d fished out of the pocket of his trousers, glanced over at her with a frown. “What is?”
“Four murders in a year!” Georgie said in an undertone, but further discussion of this oddity was forestalled by Arthur choosing that precise moment to weave his way through the crowd, soliciting interviews; one person, a very pretty woman about Georgie’s age with brown hair and a smattering of freckles across her nose, looked exceptionally eager to speak to him. Georgie was fairly sure the woman was a Murder Tourist—she thought she recognized her from a previous visit to the village that winter—and wondered whether it was her ghoulish interest in violent crimes in quaint settings or Arthur’s own particular charms that made her quite so happy to speak to a member of the press. Arthur was a reporter for The Woolly Register, and Georgie supposed he did have a professional obligation to report on the resolution of a murder investigation, so she waited patiently for him to finish his work.
At last, Arthur pocketed his notepad and returned to her side. “What were you saying?”
“Ten minutes ago,” Georgie said acerbically, but then relented. “Buncombe—upon—Woolly is small. Even a single murder should be the event of the year—of the decade!”
“And it was,” Arthur reminded her as they turned away from the Marbled Cheese to continue their progress down the high street, nodding to everyone but avoiding being trapped in conversation. (This was always a hazard in a village the size of Buncombe—upon—Woolly, especially when one was a Radcliffe of Radcliffe Hall. And Georgie, for better or worse, could lay claim to that surname.) “I thought the entire village would collectively perish from excitement when the vicar was poisoned—do you know we sold more papers that week than we did in the entire previous month?”
Georgie personally thought Arthur might try a bit harder to sound less gleeful about murder—induced profits, but the recent crime spree in Buncombe—upon—Woolly had undoubtedly proved to be a promising development for his career.
“But then Mr. and Mrs. Fieldstone were poisoned only a couple of months later!” Georgie pointed out. “And then there was the Christmas murder at Radcliffe Hall—”
“The readers loved that one,” Arthur said fondly. “I thought the ‘Murder Under the Mistletoe’ headline was one of my best.”
Georgie cut him a scathing look. “It was at my house.”
“I know,” Arthur agreed with a solemn shake of his head. “Which is unfortunate in terms of Christmas memories, I expect, but it was dashed convenient for me, in terms of access to the crime scene. The Deathly Dispatch only wishes they’d had their reporter on the ground for that one!”
Georgie rolled her eyes; The Deathly Dispatch was an anonymously published broadsheet that had begun circulating solely in response to Buncombe—upon—Woolly’s crime spree, and it was more or less the bane of Arthur’s existence, obsessed as he was with getting scoops before its unnamed reporter, who went by the nom de plume Agent Arsenic.
“But this one makes four,” Georgie said, refusing to allow herself to be drawn into yet another discussion of small—town newspaper rivalries. She cast a glance over her shoulder at the Marbled Cheese crowd, where Mr. Vincent—the owner and editor in chief of The Woolly Register, and therefore Arthur’s employer and, given the size of the village, his only coworker—was still busy taking photographs of the exterior of the Marbles’ shop. “I wouldn’t have thought Mrs. Marble capable of murder. She’s always been very kind.”
“You’re just annoyed you weren’t the one to catch her,” Arthur said slyly, nodding at Mrs. Penbaker, the wife of the village council chairman, in passing. Her husband, Mr. Penbaker, had been blustering in his usual fashion outside the Marbles’ shop, loudly proclaiming to all assembled that the streets of Buncombe—upon—Woolly were safe once more now that the murderous cheesemonger was soon to be behind bars. Arthur had got a lengthy quote from him on the dangers of bitter wives with easy access to arsenic, and Georgie, who had only listened to approximately a third of his speech before beginning to mentally catalogue the plants in the greenhouse at Radcliffe Hall, had been hard—pressed not to roll her eyes.
Georgie huffed out an irritated breath as they came to a stop before the library, which was an almost offensively charming building of honey—colored stone with ivy creeping up its walls in the very heart of the village. “I didn’t ask to help solve those murders, you know,” she said as Arthur stepped forward to open the door for her. “It’s not my fault that no one else in this village seems capable of identifying common poisons.”
“Some of us, George, have better things to do than spend our days studying every weed we spot growing along the riverbanks,” Arthur said, and Georgie had to exercise great restraint to stop herself from elbowing him in the stomach. She was twenty—five now, and while that had not been an uncommon habit when she and Arthur were younger, she thought vaguely that she should perhaps attempt to be a bit more dignified in her advanced age.
“Being able to identify a bouquet of lily of the valley in a woman’s kitchen, when the vicar’s symptoms perfectly matched those associated with that particular poison, is just common sense,” Georgie said in an annoyed whisper. “And yet the police were too stupid to manage even that basic level of investigation.”
“See? You’re irritated that they didn’t consult you.” Arthur sounded smug, as he so often did lately, pushing his tortoiseshell glasses up on his nose; his articles for the Register had garnered regional interest, and a few had even been picked up by some of the London papers. She could tell he was daydreaming about the glamorous life he would lead in London once he managed to secure a reporting job there instead; he was already dressing the part, she thought, casting a thoughtful glance at the herringbone trousers and carefully pressed shirt he was wearing. He made her feel rather dowdy by comparison, in her serviceable brown dress and woolly cardigan—but, she thought philosophically, she’d spent her entire life not caring much about how she looked, so there was no reason to start now, just because Arthur was looking a bit... well, dashing. (At least, she noted with satisfaction, his curly dark hair was as unruly as ever.) No doubt he intended to abandon Buncombe—upon—Woolly for a fast—paced life of nightclubs and cocktails, and would conduct love affairs with half the women in London (and half the men, too, Georgie didn’t doubt), and she’d only see him once a year at Christmas. She felt a bit gloomy at the thought.
“I’m perfectly fine, thank you,” she said stiffly, and then promptly abandoned him to make a beeline for the botany section, while Arthur headed off to consult the library’s collection of other archived Gloucestershire newspapers, to compare historical crime statistics to those of the past year. For all he might tease her about her interest in the recent spate of murders, he was just as curious.
Georgie set about amassing a stack of books to take home with her—many of which, admittedly, she’d already read—and, after some minutes spent browsing, approached the desk where Miss Halifax, the librarian, was seated. She was perhaps fifteen years Georgie’s senior, with dark hair that was pinned loosely back from her face; she wore a blue day dress with a white collar and, per the laws of librarianship, a cardigan. She had an Agatha Christie novel in hand and was scribbling away in a notebook as Georgie set her books down before her. Georgie spotted a page labeled Book club questions, and she shook her head darkly. The book club, as she understood it, had formed in the wake of the village’s recent murder spree, and solely read crime novels.
“Any chance we might see you at the next Book Clue Crew meeting, Miss Radcliffe?” Miss Halifax asked, looking up as Georgie produced her library card from her dress pocket.
Georgie did not snort, but she was tempted. “No, thank you,” she said. “I think that there are quite enough murders in my day—to—day life without seeking out fictional ones. In fact,” she added, “I should be very happy to not think about murder ever again.”
“I think there are many readers who would disagree with you, Miss Radcliffe.” Miss Halifax handed back her library card.
“Well,” Georgie said, watching as Miss Halifax set about stamping her books, “I can assure you that I’ve better things to do than worry about the opinions of mystery readers.”
“Georgie!”
Georgie, her arms full of books, was attempting to scrape mud off the sides of her oxford shoes so that Mrs. Fawcett did not murder her in her sleep for mucking up her clean floors. She paused at the sound of her sister’s voice, and turned to see Abigail standing dramatically on the stairs in...
“What on earth have you got on?” Georgie asked, setting the books down on the floor next to her as she unlaced her shoes.
“A Victorian nightgown,” Abigail said, in a tone that implied that this should have been obvious—and that, moreover, there was nothing else that she possibly could have been expected to be wearing at—Georgie consulted the antique clock above the empty fireplace in the entrance hall—three—fifteen on a Monday afternoon.
Georgie retrieved her books, straightened, and cast her sister an inquiring look. “Are you unwell?” Abigail appeared to be positively blooming with good health and cheer, as always.
“No,” Abigail said slowly. “Only, well.” She paused, adopting an expression of martyred suffering that Georgie found a bit much to swallow from someone who routinely slept until ten in the morning. “I’m a bit fatigued.” She sighed, rubbing at her eyes—which, Georgie noted, displayed no telltale dark circles or lines or any other hint of exhaustion. “Perhaps we ought to summon Dr. Severin.”
Georgie’s eyes narrowed. “Indeed? You feel that poorly?”
“Well, you never know. One ought to be cautious with one’s health, Georgie.”
“I suppose if Dr. Severin were not quite so young and handsome, your desire to summon him would remain unchanged?” Georgie asked with a skeptical lift of one brow.
“Georgie!” Abigail clapped a dramatic hand to her breast; Georgie was unmoved.
“You’re perfectly fine,” she informed her sister shortly as she made her way up the stairs past her in her stockinged feet, clutching her armful of books. “And they’ve arrested Mrs. Marble for her husband’s murder,” she tossed over her shoulder in passing, relishing the slightly shocked expression on Abigail’s face.
“But she always made the most delicious cheese tart for the village fete!” Abigail said mournfully. “I can’t believe anyone who makes cheese tarts could be a murderess!”
“I will inform the constabulary of this logical objection at once,” Georgie called, before continuing up the second flight of stairs to the top floor of the house. Here, she made her way to the far end of the hallway, opened the door to her bedroom, and shut it behind herself with perhaps more force than was strictly necessary.
“Sisters,” she muttered to Egg, her elderly beagle, who raised her head inquiringly from the battered blue—and—green tartan pillow she had, until moments earlier, been slumbering upon.
Egg twitched an ear in Georgie’s direction, which Georgie took to be a gesture of sympathetic commiseration, and after depositing her library books in an untidy pile upon her desk, she settled herself on the floor, reaching out to stroke Egg’s soft ears. Egg let out a satisfied sigh, allowing her head to sink back down atop her cushion. Ordinarily, Egg would have accompanied Georgie on her excursion, but Miss Halifax had made it clear to Georgie that under no circumstances whatsoever was she to bring her dog into the library.
Georgie looked around the room, her fingers still rubbing an absent—minded pattern on Egg’s ear: Radcliffe Hall, the ramshackle estate that had been home to her family for three hundred years, had certainly seen better days, but it did have turrets on either end, and Georgie had resided in one of these turrets since she’d been old enough to be moved out of the nursery. Her walls were painted a deep forest green and decorated with a number of framed botanical prints; the four—poster was pushed against one wall opposite a window so that she could lie in bed and take in views of the rolling hills that surrounded Buncombe—upon—Woolly. There were books and empty teacups scattered haphazardly upon nearly every available surface; a record player sat atop her dresser, a teetering pile of records stacked next to it; her favorite tweed jacket was tossed upon a particularly comfortable armchair; the entire room smelled faintly, but not unpleasantly, of dog.
Georgie leaned down to press a quick kiss to Egg’s head. She stretched out her legs before her, wiggling her toes in her stockings which, annoyingly, seemed to be forming a hole over one toe yet again. Mrs. Fawcett truly was going to murder her—although Georgie had the faint, dissatisfied feeling that perhaps she ought to stop speaking quite so flippantly of murder, given recent events.
It was irritating. The entire past year had been irritating, in fact; her thoughts returned to her conversation with Arthur earlier. One murder in a village of this size was a shocking tragedy; two was an unpleasant coincidence; but three—and now four? Georgie was a creature of science, of reason, and she simply did not think it normal. Of all the villages in England, why did hers have to be the one that had suddenly become a hotbed of murder—and, possibly even worse, a hotbed of Murder Tourists? The Murder Tourists—who had flooded the village over the course of the past year, drawn by lurid headlines and eager to visit the scenes of Buncombe—upon—Woolly’s various crimes—had quickly become the bane of Georgie’s existence.
There was a tap at the door, interrupting these dissatisfying thoughts. “Come in,” she called absently, not moving from her spot on the floor; the door opened and her father poked his head in. Egg thumped her tail several times in greeting.
“Georgie, love, you haven’t seen my spectacles, have you?” Papa asked, looking vaguely harried. “I can’t seem to find them, and I just received my copy of this year’s Archaeological Journal.” He rubbed his hands together at the thought of this promised treat.
“Check the tea tray in your study, Papa,” Georgie said. “If Mrs. Fawcett brought you your usual three o’clock cup of tea, you might have left them beside the pot.” A fact she knew because he did this precise thing at least once a week. (He was also in the habit of losing them atop his head.)
“Of course, of course,” Papa said absently, squinting down at the envelopes in his hand; evidently the afternoon post had arrived. “Any news from the village?”
“They’ve arrested Mrs. Marble for her husband’s murder.”
“Have they?” Papa asked, still staring at the letter in his hand. “Never thought her capable of murder. Too short.”
“I do not believe height is a prerequisite for homicide, Papa.”
“I suppose not,” he said, looking up at her at last. “You’d know more about it than I would, love.” He waved vaguely before retreating; as soon as she heard his footsteps on the stairs, Georgie flopped back onto the floor. She stared up at the ceiling as Egg offered her a politely inquiring tilt of the head.
“Is no one else in this village capable of rational thought?” she asked Egg, stroking a gentle finger down her snout.
She should be glad, she knew, that the police had managed to make an arrest without her assistance this time. And yet, she could not stop the niggling worry that had been present at the back of her mind since the moment she and Arthur had witnessed Mrs. Marble’s arrest a few hours earlier. She didn’t want to solve another mystery and she wasn’t going to involve herself in a case that seemed to have been resolved, whatever her misgivings.
She turned her head on the Turkish rug—one that, from this vantage point, quite clearly needed a good beating; she resolutely ignored this fact—and stared into Egg’s mournful eyes.
“I didn’t ask to become an amateur sleuth, you know.”
Egg whined sympathetically.
“And it’s about time the police started doing their jobs without me.”
Egg’s tail thumped encouragingly on the floor.
She crossed her arms over her chest, noticing that a small hole was forming in the sleeve of her brown wool cardigan; that would be another project for Mrs. Fawcett, as Georgie’s mending skills could be charitably described as limited. “Even if the—the council chairman, of all people, were to keel over, that would be none of my concern.”
Egg blinked at her. Georgie decided to take this as a show of emotional support, and reached out to pat her head.
Beagles, Georgie thought, were much better company than humans.
