Murder at Cleeve Abbey Read online

  BETRAYAL AT CLEEVE ABBEY

  Anita Davison

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  About this Book

  About the Author

  Table of Contents

  www.ariafiction.com

  About Betrayal at Cleeve Abbey

  The second instalment in the thrilling Flora Maguire Mystery Series.

  Flora Maguire is now happily married to Bunny Harrington and living in Richmond when she receives an alarming telegram informing her of her father’s tragic death in a riding accident at Cleeve Abbey.

  Heartbroken, she and Bunny return to her former home, where she was Governess to Eddy, Viscount Trent, and her father was Butler to Earl Trent.

  Flora’s intention was to bury him next to Lily, her mother, who sadly passed away when Flora was a small child.

  Mystery surrounds the final resting place of Lily. No-one is willing to talk and, with her father now dead in a suspicious accident, Flora must once again strive alone to uncover hidden family secrets.

  For my Mum and Dad, wherever you are now,

  Tom and Eileen, I hope it’s together

  We must not look at goblin men,

  We must not buy their fruits:

  Who knows upon what soil they fed

  Their hungry thirsty roots?

  from Goblin Market by Christina Rossetti

  Contents

  Cover

  Welcome Page

  About Betrayal at Cleeve Abbey

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  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

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Acknowledgements

  About Anita Davison

  About the Flora Maguire Mysteries

  Become an Aria Addict

  Copyright

  1

  Richmond, Surrey, August 1902

  Flora shifted the weight of her wicker basket from one arm to the other, her lower lip jutted to blow a breath upwards, stirring the stray damp curls on her forehead. A trickle of sweat worked down between her shoulder blades, plastering her muslin dress to her skin.

  The landlord of The Cricketer’s swept the pavement in front of his public house on the edge of the green. He looked up when he saw her and paused, righted his broom and crossed his hands on the top.

  ‘Beautiful day again, Mrs Harrington, eh?’

  ‘A little too hot for me, Mr Brace.’ Flora raised her free hand in a wave and winced as her leather boot rubbed her right ankle. The sting there told her a blister would form soon to add to her discomfort. The basket dragged against her hip, causing her to regret her offer to fetch the provisions the grocer had failed to deliver that morning; an omission that had sent her mother-in-law into a barrage of complaints about tradesmen in general.

  An occasional click of leather on willow accompanied by a languid shout drifted across the green enclosed by trees that had been saplings before Queen Elizabeth’s time. Cricketers in white trousers and shirts loped across the field, too indolent to run in the oppressive heat. The weather had been stiflingly hot and dry for the past week, the exhausting humidity worsened by the constant dust thrown up from horses and carts on the roads that clung to buildings, clothes and damp skin.

  Flora turned into Old Palace Lane, whose row of neat town houses thinned out into larger properties set behind shoulder-high manicured hedges; the River Thames at the far end of the road shimmered like glass in the sunlight. Even the river looked too languid to move as starlings and blackbirds flew low enough to dip their beaks in the cool water.

  Flora quickened her stride in anticipation of a cool drink as the house where she lived with her husband and mother-in-law came into view on her left.

  At the gatepost she slowed, frowning. Something wasn’t right. A sharp bonfire smell caught the back of her throat, where a minute before the air had been laden with the scent of summer flowers and cut grass. While she ruminated on where it came from, the distinctive sound of breaking glass reached her, followed by a female scream.

  Flora’s head filled with grim possibilities that swirled and collided just as a thick cloud of grey smoke wafted over the hedge that shielded the house from the road.

  Dropping the basket, she broke into a run across the gravel drive where sharp stones cut through the soles of her boots, but she pounded on toward the house where orange flames licked round the window frame on the lower ground floor.

  Flora froze a few feet away, watching in horror as the paint bubbled, wrinkled and turned black. Vein-like cracks appeared in the glass, spread outwards and exploded into a thousand glittering shards that rained down onto the area steps. She threw up an arm as searing heat surged toward her, then sucked back again into the basement as the fire roared like a live creature consuming the room.

  Fear she could almost taste gripped her as she went through a mental list of who might still be inside the house. Bunny was at the motorcycle factory in Penge and wouldn’t be back until early evening, though just then she didn’t know if this was a good thing or not. He would have known what to do.

  Should she go inside to ensure there was no one left in the house? Or run to a neighbour’s and summon the fire brigade?

  Apart from the crackle and spit of the flames, the front of the house remained ominously silent. Her mother-in-law had been inside the house when Flora had left to fetch the groceries a half-hour before. Had she got out, or was she inside and too frightened to try and leave?

  Flora gathered her courage and sprinted for the front door, just as the side gate flew open and crashed against the wall.

  Mary, the kitchen maid burst through from the rear garden, her face streaked with soot that had settled in unsightly smuts on her cap and apron.

  ‘Miss Flora! Miss Flora! The ’ouse is on fire!’ She twisted her apron between her hands, wavered and took a step back the way she had come, then changed direction, only to hesitate again, her eyes clouded.

  Flora caught her upper arms and brought her to a halt as curls of ash floated from the ruined window like grey snowflakes and settled onto their hair and shoulders.

  ‘Who screamed?’ The thought her mother-in-law being trapped filling her with dread, but the voice she had heard was surely too high and young to have come from her.

  The maid didn’t reply, so she gave her a small shake. ‘Mary!’

  ‘What?’ Her eyes cleared and she blinked. ‘Oh, that was me, Miss. The window blew out and—’

  ‘Never mind.’ Relief flooded through Flora. ‘Is everyone out of the house?’

  ‘I think so, Miss.’ Mary frowned. ‘Crabtree ordered us all into the back garden.’

  Flora nodded, and headed for the gate relief allowing her to think. ‘Go to the fire house and alert them. Run! As quick as you can.’

  A door slammed somewhere, bringing Flora’s gaze to an upper floor where a filmy white curtain fluttered from an open window but no one appeared. Mary halted beside her and stared upwards.

  ‘Mary go, now!’ Flora gave her a shove.

  Mary flinched but seemed to come to her senses, turned and took off down t
he road in the direction of the Green.

  Four female servants huddled together on the lawn at the rear of the house, all staring wide-eyed at the plumes of smoke and flames that erupted from the lower ground floor. They all had smuts on their faces and clothes, but as far as Flora could make out, no one was hurt, although there was no sign of Beatrice.

  ‘Where’s your mistress?’ Flora demanded, joining them.

  ‘She was in her sitting room when it started.’ Mrs Barrett, the housekeeper stood twisting her apron in her hands much like Mary had.

  ‘She’s still inside?’ An image of Beatrice, lying unconscious on the floor propelled her towards the steps that led to the terrace.

  A work-hardened hand clamped on her upper arm, pulling her roughly backwards.

  ‘You can’t go in there, Miss Flora,’ Mrs Bennett pleaded. ‘It’s too dangerous. The flames might have spread to the upper floors by now. Crabtree and a footman went to find her. They’ll get her out.’

  Renewed clouds of choking smoke drifted up from the basement, a hint of flames behind it that drove them all back a pace.

  ‘Has anyone gone for help?’ Flora asked, uncertain she could trust a simple creature like Mary to do what she was told in a crisis.

  ‘Crabtree sent the boot boy to raise the alarm before it got out of control.’ Mrs Bennett adjusted her disarranged cap on her greying curls.

  ‘What happened?’ Flora shifted her feet, helpless to do anything but wait, debating whether she should have gone inside after all.

  ‘I don’t know Miss Flora.’ Mrs Barrett shook her head. ‘Mary said something smelled funny and when she opened the cellar door, there was this whoosh and a terrible heat. It were awful.’

  A low boom of an explosion sent broken glass and bits of wood and debris through the lower window. One of the maids screamed and the others covered their ears and issued distressed sobs.

  ‘What was that?’ Nancy grabbed hold of Flora’s arm, shaking.

  ‘I don’t know, the gas, maybe?’ Worry bunched beneath Flora’s ribs as she offered silent promises to a higher power for future good behaviour if Beatrice could be got out in time.

  A loud bang brought Flora’s head up to where the French doors that led from the terrace flew open, most likely from a kick, followed by a wisp of smoke that drifted out through the gap.

  ‘Look, there they are!’ Mrs Barrett shook a plump arm in the direction of the terrace. ‘They’ve got the mistress!’

  Crabtree shouldered through the door, head down one arm wrapped round Beatrice Harrington’s waist while the other shielded both their heads. A footman assisted from her other side as they half-carried, half-dragged her down the stone steps onto the lawn.

  Flora darted forward as they lowered Beatrice into a peacock backed garden chair someone had dragged from the terrace. Her mother-in-law’s eyes were closed, her breathing laboured as if she had been running.

  ‘Was she anywhere near the fire?’ Flora demanded, making a rapid examination of Beatrice, who appeared uninjured.

  Crabtree bent at the waist, his hands braced on his knees as he hauled deep breaths into his lungs. The footman stood nearby, enduring similar discomfort.

  ‘No, Miss,’ the butler gasped when he could finally speak. ‘She didn’t believe me at first. Then smoke started coming through the door and she just froze and refused to move. I’m afraid I had to insist, Miss Flora.’

  ‘You did well, Crabtree.’ His face and hair was streaked with soot, one sleeve of his livery scorched and torn revealing a livid red mark. ‘You’re hurt!’

  ‘Nay, Miss Flora, it’s nothing.’ He straightened, easing his arm from her grasp. ‘My jacket took the worst of it.’ He pushed his other hand through his wavy silver hair, a characteristic that deceived most people into believing he was older than he was.

  ‘Even so, you must get that burn dressed before you do anything else.’

  ‘I will, Miss Flora. When I know the fire is out.’ He stepped away, his uninjured arm gripping the other one.

  ‘I’m so relieved you’re all right, Mother.’ Flora took Beatrice’s free hand in hers, the other still held by Mrs Barrett.

  ‘Of course I’m not all right, girl.’ Beatrice’s strident voice snapped. ‘I was almost killed!’ She yanked her hand from Flora’s grip and flapped the other to fend off the housekeeper.

  ‘I understand it must have been frightening for you, but that isn’t quite true.’ Flora took in Beatrice’s emerald green silk dress, which was barely creased, her hair still immaculately coiffured. ‘We must be thankful no one was hurt.’

  ‘Not hurt?’ Beatrice shrieked, all signs of her previous near faint gone. If one had been there at all. ‘My nerves are shattered, I’ll have you know.’ She patted her immaculate hair and fanned her face with a handkerchief. ‘My beautiful house is being destroyed and no one’s doing anything about it.’

  Flora was about to remind her it was also Bunny’s beautiful house, but this was not the time. An image entered her head of all their furniture and belongings consumed by the flames, but she pushed it away. None of that mattered if Beatrice was safe.

  ‘The fire brigade will be here soon.’ Flora returned to practicalities, the fingers of both hands behind her back. The smoke seemed to be getting thicker and red flames had filled the now exposed kitchens. If it wasn’t put out soon, the whole house would be engulfed.

  ‘And how did it start, I should like to know?’ Beatrice demanded, drawing all eyes to her. ‘Who allowed this to happen?’ She raked each one of the servants with an uncompromising look; the same one she used to enquire after vanishing leftover apple pie or a stray pork chop. ‘One of you must have neglected to extinguish the stove properly.’

  ‘I hadn’t even started the dinner, Mrs Harrington.’ Mrs Barrett coughed and covered her mouth with the end of her apron. ‘The range was damped down, so it can’t have been that.’

  ‘It weren’t my fault, Missus. Truly,’ Nancy pleaded, twisting her hands in front of her. ‘Everything happened so fast, we couldn’t do nothing.’

  ‘Hush, Nancy. No one’s blaming you.’ Mrs Barrett gestured the girl away.

  Beatrice looked about to continue her questioning when the harsh clang of a bell from the road drew their attention, accompanied by the rhythmic clop of hooves and the firemen’s shout of ‘Hi! yi!’ warning pedestrians and traffic to stand aside.

  ‘Thank goodness,’ Flora exhaled a relieved breath.

  ‘They took their time.’ Beatrice huffed and smoothed back a strand of iron grey hair. ‘Fetch my smelling salts, would you Nancy?’

  ‘Stay where you are, Nancy!’ Flora’s voice halted the maid in mid stride. ‘What can you be thinking, Mother? No one can go back inside until the firemen tell us it’s safe.’

  Nancy threw a fearful look at Beatrice, but stayed where she was.

  ‘I’ll go and speak to them.’ Flora had got as far as the side gate before Beatrice called her back.

  ‘Where are you going, Flora? I need you here.’

  ‘The firemen will need to be told no one is still inside, Mother. They might also need directions to the nearest standpipe.’ She kept her voice level and her face bland, a skill she had learned to acquire at will during the fifteen months of her marriage to Beatrice’s son.

  ‘I’m sure they’re perfectly capable of doing their job.’ Beatrice sighed. Her head flopped against the rounded chair back as if she were unable to hold her neck upright. ‘Leave them to it, they won’t want your interference.’

  Flora gave her a polite, though insincere smile, before ignoring her, she carried on to the front of the house, where a group of about eight firemen crowded around the basement steps. More had ventured inside, their brass hats visible through the ruined window.

  Someone had propped the basket of groceries she had abandoned earlier against a gatepost; the contents undamaged apart from one egg which oozed yellow yolk through its brown paper packaging.

  The firemen had taken charge
, located the standpipe without help and set one of their number to order the curious crowd back behind an invisible line. The others moved quickly and efficiently through the house, having already dampened down the flames, then set to bringing out destroyed furniture and clearing debris to ensure the fire was out.

  The ruined kitchen window bore scorch marks around the bare stonework where no trace of the wooden frame remained, but for a pile of cinders on the flagstones. The inside of the room was unrecognizable as a kitchen, with dripping black walls and a jagged black hole where part of the ceiling had fallen down.

  It would take a while to clear up this mess.

  She stared round in dismay, her attention caught by two magnificent grey horses being guided into the shafts of the pump engine that stood in the road.

  One of the firemen saw Flora watching and smiled, an open attractive smile of someone who enjoyed his role in life. ‘Beautiful aren’t they?’ Taking her nod as encouragement, he went on, ‘Sixteen hands these two and strong, which is just as well when the engine weighs three tons fully loaded.’ He patted the nearest one on its solid neck. ‘But they don’t like fire much.’

  ‘Few animals do. What do you do with the horses while you deal with the fires?’

  ‘We unhitch them and take them somewhere quiet. It’s easy enough with these snap harnesses.’ He flicked a finger at the nearest trace. ‘There’s always someone around to feed them treats while we work.’ He indicated the small crowd gathered on the road, their necks stretched to see what all the activity was about.

  ‘All right then, Miss?’ The head fireman brushed soot from his shoulders as he approached. He tipped his gleaming brass helmet that bore the letters MFB on the front below a curled comb that sported a dragon. ‘Nasty mess in there, I suggest no one go in for a while. Let the air settle a bit.’

  He was unusually tall, with craggy tanned features which made his age hard to determine. His high leather boots and navy blue double-breasted uniform and stand-up collar faced in scarlet must have been uncomfortable in this heat, though he gave no sign of it.