Murder at Maypole Manor: A Posie Parker Mystery (The Posie Parker Mystery Series Book 3) Read online

  Murder at Maypole Manor

  -A Posie Parker Mystery-

  L.B. Hathaway

  WHITEHAVEN MAN PRESS

  London

  First published in Great Britain in 2016 by Whitehaven Man Press, London

  Copyright © L.B. Hathaway 2016

  (http://www.lbhathaway.com, email: [email protected])

  The moral right of the author, L.B. Hathaway, has been asserted.

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, or specifically mentioned in the Historical Note at the end of this publication, are fictitious and any resemblance to any real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Sale or provision of this publication by any bookshop, retailer or e-book platform or website without the express written permission of the author is in direct breach of copyright and the author’s moral rights, and such rights will be enforced legally. Thank you for respecting the author’s rights.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN (e-book:) 978-0-9929254-7-5

  ISBN (paperback:) 978-0-9929254-8-2

  Jacket illustration by Red Gate Arts.

  Formatting and design by J.D. Smith.

  For Ingrid, with love

  By L.B. Hathaway

  The Posie Parker Mystery Series

  1. Murder Offstage: A Posie Parker Mystery

  2. The Tomb of the Honey Bee: A Posie Parker Mystery

  3. Murder at Maypole Manor: A Posie Parker Mystery

  4. The Vanishing of Dr Winter: A Posie Parker Mystery

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  PART ONE An Unexpected Invite

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  PART TWO New Year’s Party

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  PART THREE Murder at Midnight

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  PART FOUR The Long, Long Night

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  PART FIVE A Means of Escape

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Four Months Later

  Epilogue

  Thanks for joining Posie Parker and her friends

  Historical Note

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  PART ONE

  An Unexpected Invite

  One

  The shrill ringing of the telephone cut through the warm, velvety quiet of the office waiting room. A fire was smouldering in the hearth and the lamps were turned down low.

  After some delay and with a great deal of muttering, Posie Parker, Private Detective and owner of the Grape Street Bureau snatched up the receiver with an ill grace. The dulcet tones of the Operator trilled out across the London airwaves like a cheery budgerigar.

  ‘Will you please hold the line for Scotland Yard, modom?’

  What a thoroughly stupid question, Posie thought to herself, twitching the telephone cord in irritation and rubbing sleep out of her eyes. As if you could say no to the most senior Police Department in England!

  Posie was standing in her secretary’s empty office. She idly flicked the cards on Prudence Smythe’s desk calendar to make the correct date, Friday 30th December 1921 – pointlessly perhaps, as it was only her in the office, so what did it matter? – and then she started to pick things up off the desk: a piece of withered mistletoe; a blue paper party hat; a packet of Rowntree’s dark chocolate. After a couple of seconds a familiar voice came on the line:

  ‘That you, Posie?’

  ‘The very same.’

  ‘You sound different. You haven’t got a bally cold, have you?’

  ‘No. I was sleeping. You woke me.’

  ‘At four in the afternoon?’ Detective Inspector Richard Lovelace’s clear, authoritative voice sounded incredulous. At her silence he continued uneasily.

  ‘Er, well, never mind. You must have your reasons, I daresay. Did you have a good Christmas? Lots of parties?’

  ‘No. Not really.’ Posie opened the chocolate and crammed it into her mouth in one go. She was starving. Food stocks at the Grape Street Bureau were running low. Prudence wouldn’t mind: needs must and all that.

  ‘It was very quiet.’ Not to mention lonely. With only a cat and a borrowed dog for company, in fact. Not that she’d admit that to Inspector Lovelace. Or the fact that she hadn’t bothered to change out of her pyjamas for more than three days in a row, just throwing a coat on over the top when she had needed to walk the dog around the block.

  ‘Where’s Len?’

  ‘Wales, I think. Somewhere by the sea with his wife, Aggie. A family gathering. Out of London anyhow. Just about everyone is out of London right now. Since the war everyone seems to make a real fuss about Christmas, don’t they? Like they never did before. It’s all been blown right out of proportion if you ask me.’

  ‘Hmmm, perhaps. And what about Alaric?’

  Posie sighed. Her famous explorer boyfriend and his whereabouts were not a good topic of conversation just now. ‘South Africa. For another month or so. It was a last-minute thing. He got an offer he couldn’t refuse; to speak to some learned society about his adventures. It was ridiculously well-paid, and easy money. He took off on Christmas Eve.’

  ‘What about his city bees? Don’t tell me you’re looking after them?’ The Inspector was referring to a few experimental beehives which Alaric Boynton-Dale had set up on the roof terrace of Posie’s Bloomsbury block of flats, Museum Chambers. Inspector Lovelace had been instrumental in procuring Alaric a special licence for the beehives in September, and had shown a very slight interest ever since.

  ‘Bees sleep through the winter, Inspector. So fortunately I don’t have to do anything. Although right now I wish I was a bee, sleeping through the winter.’

  ‘You sound a bit down, old girl; not quite yourself. Everything all right? Where’s Dolly and Rufus?’

  ‘Dolly’s busy being pregnant and is miles away at Rebburn Abbey and Rufus has been called to Balmoral to wait upon the Royal Family or something. That’s what happens when you’re one of the biggest landowners in the country. Lord Rufus Cardigeon is probably making himself indispensable to old King George as we speak.’

  ‘I see.’

  A very small note of cajoling lent itself to the Inspector’s voice. ‘Well I’m dashed glad I found you, Posie. I’ve sent a few telegrams and notes to Museum Chambers today. But they’ve all been returned to me, unread. Ted the Porter said you’d left. I thought you’d gone off on a toot somewhere…’

  ‘No. Unfortunately not. The central heating at Museum Chambers broke down on Christmas Eve. And we’re not allowed open fires there. So I moved in here.’

  ‘You’re kidding me. You spent Christmas in your office?’ br />
  ‘Yep. At least it was warm.’ Posie looked around her. She had already taken down the Christmas decorations, not bothering to wait for Twelfth Night, but the usually neat waiting room was a mess: a pink foil-covered package of Fry’s Turkish Delight sat melting by the fire; a stack of paperback novels were propped against the couch; a sleeping bag and a pillow were sprawled all over the floor and an occupied dog basket was tucked over in the corner. The dog, Bikram, a handsome pointer, was snoozing in the heat from the fire.

  ‘No wonder you’re a good deal pipped. Can’t say I blame you. But what about tomorrow? New Year’s Eve? Have you any plans?’

  Posie sighed: it seemed that she was quite alone in the world, tucked up high above the London rooftops. To make matters worse, the storm which had blown itself out earlier in the day was whipping itself up again outside, and heavy rain was lashing against the windowpane like a bevy of small stones being thrown repeatedly at the glass.

  ‘Nope. No plans. Not a sausage.’

  ‘Well, that’s what I hoped you’d say. I need your help. So no more of this feeling sorry for yourself flimflam, old girl. I need you tomorrow and the day after. Top-secret mission from Scotland Yard. Seriously undercover. What do you say?’

  Posie was gripping the telephone cord in excitement. Anything; I’ll do anything to get out of here.

  ‘Mnnn, well. I might consider it,’ she replied mock-cagily. ‘What is it you want me to do?’

  ‘I need you to pretend to be my wife at a New Year’s Eve party tomorrow evening. Mine won’t do. And in fact, you’re eminently more suitable for this than my own wife would be.’

  ‘That sounds a little odd. Dashed familiar if you don’t mind me saying so.’

  ‘No, no. It’s not like that,’ said the Inspector hastily. ‘Molly, my real wife, is pregnant, so she can’t come. But she wouldn’t have been suitable anyhow. Not subtle enough, and not bothered enough. She’d rather be home knitting tiny lemon-yellow booties or whatever it is that babies wear nowadays. She certainly wouldn’t be up to coming along to a glamorous New Year’s Eve party down in Kent and acting out a part.’

  ‘What “part” would that be, Inspector? I don’t follow you.’

  ‘I can’t explain on the telephone. It’s too risky. This should be a secure line, but you never know. I’ve probably said too much already.’

  ‘It sounds a bit odd, Inspector.’

  ‘I totally agree. You’ll just have to use that famous Posie Parker gut instinct about whether to accept or not. But know this: you’d be helping me out no end; not to mention serving your country. There’s a question of national security at stake. So are you in, or not?’

  Just then an almighty ruckus broke out in the corner of the waiting room. Posie’s brand new copy of Agatha Christie’s The Mysterious Affair at Styles came a cropper. She sighed heavily. Bikram the dog and Mr Minks the office Siamese cat were hissing and tearing at each other. Actually, it was Mr Minks doing all the hissing and tearing. Bikram was just defending his dog basket. Over a week in a confined space had done nothing for dog-cat relations.

  ‘It depends, Inspector. On two things.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘One – is there central heating? And two – can I bring a dog?’

  Inspector Lovelace laughed in relief. ‘Yes to both,’ he said certainly. ‘Meet me at Victoria Station, Platform 3 tomorrow. Twelve noon. And thanks, Posie. I owe you one.’

  No, thought Posie as she replaced the receiver. She owed him big time. She had been on the verge of getting cabin fever, or worse. And after all, there was only so much Turkish Delight a girl could eat.

  ****

  The call from the Inspector galvanised Posie into action and she felt like she had woken from a bad, fuggy dream.

  She snapped to work clearing up the office, as the following Monday, 2nd January, would be the start of a normal working week and she couldn’t imagine anything worse than Prudence Smythe and Len Irving arriving back at work and witnessing the detritus of her week’s sloppy stopover. Besides, she didn’t want to have to explain to either of them that she had taken shelter at the Grape Street Bureau over Christmas, with simply nowhere else to go.

  She changed out of her flannelette pyjamas, opened a new bar of Yardley’s soap and washed in the tiny office bathroom with the cracked sink. She threw on some real clothes at last and put her old mackintosh on and then took Bikram for his evening walk through the dark, rainy streets of Bloomsbury.

  The weather outside was filthy and both Posie and Bikram were blown around no end. The pavements were totally empty of course, and it wasn’t until Posie was on the Tottenham Court Road that she noticed anyone else about. The cafés and shops were all closed and had been for the whole week, but in some windows shop girls could be seen lit up in fleeting glimpses behind screens, manoeuvring precariously on ladders with large ‘JANUARY SALE’ signs, getting things ready for the next day, when crowds would flock to Oxford Street and Regent Street to try and pick up a bargain on the first day of the sales. On the junction with the Charing Cross Road a man with an old white caravan was doing a roaring trade selling fish and chips, despite the weather, and the hot vinegary scent drifted temptingly over.

  Posie queued for a portion patiently in the rain and then ate her fish and chip supper back at the Grape Street Bureau, in front of the fire, sharing it begrudgingly with Mr Minks. As she did so, the telephone rang again. The wind was shaking the window-casements like crazy and whistling through the doorways, and Posie could hardly hear what the Operator was telling her. It was a bad, stormy line, with a great deal of strange ghostly noises, taps and hissings in the background.

  ‘Posie?’

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Rainbird speaking. I thought the Operator announced me? I’m calling on behalf of the Inspector.’

  ‘Oh, hello, Sergeant. Everything all right, is it?’ She gripped the receiver nervously. She hadn’t realised quite how much the invitation from the Inspector meant to her. Had it been cancelled, worse luck?

  ‘Has there been a change of plan?’

  ‘No, no. But the Inspector forgot to tell you something. He told me to tell you to bring a very nice frock. Apparently it’s going to be a seriously fancy affair. If it’s no trouble, that is?’

  There was a flurry of fuzzy hissings down the line. ‘No, of course it’s no trouble. Well, if that’s everything? This really is a terrible line, Sergeant. I’ll wish you a Happy New Year and ring off. Hope you have a good evening tomorrow, wherever you are.’

  ‘Oh, no need for that, Miss Parker, but thank you all the same. Didn’t the Inspector tell you?’ came the Sergeant’s muffled voice, as if he were speaking into a large goldfish bowl with the fish still in situ. ‘I’m coming with you tomorrow. I’m to be valet and general dogsbody. My name will be Perkins, by the way. Better get used to it; you’ll have to pretend I’ve been your servant for years. I’m looking forward to this little jaunt.’ He paused, and when he spoke next it was in the tones of one who is privy to special, secret knowledge. ‘Did you happen to know that Amory Laine is going to be one of the guests?’

  ‘No!’ Posie gasped aloud. Amory Laine was the current English film star du jour, and had recently become very famous. ‘Golly. The Inspector told me nothing! Is there anything else which I should know about?’

  ‘Oh, stacks. Until tomorrow at Victoria,’ replied the policeman maddeningly, before ringing off.

  ****

  Two

  Saturday the 31st of December, the very last day of 1921, dawned grey and bitterly cold after the storm of the night before.

  A shivery sort of day, thought Posie wistfully as she picked her way through the early-morning streets. London was looking particularly ugly, in fact. Several roof tiles were down and bits of broken twig and smatterings of rubbish were draped along the roads at regular intervals, souvenirs of the storm the previous night, lending Bloomsbury a particularly shipwrecked, flooded look.

  Posie dashed b
ack home to Museum Chambers to pick out a dress. On entering the common hallway she whistled under her breath as she contemplated just how cold the building actually was. No-one was about, sensibly, and it seemed as if the very air was actually made up of freshly formed ice particles. Trying not to shiver, and wrapping her thick tweed coat tightly around herself for warmth, Posie took the birdcage lift to the top floor and entered her apartment, clenching her teeth together to stop them from chattering.

  You could have cut the air inside with a knife, it was that cold. As fast as she could, Posie ran to her bedroom and changed quickly into a smart brown Harris Tweed day suit with matching beret. She started throwing make-up and perfume into her nice leather overnight bag willy-nilly.

  The Inspector had said they would be working undercover, and he had said it would be a glamorous affair, but Posie was dashed glad she had spoken to Sergeant Rainbird. After all, there was glamour and then there was glamour. If Amory Laine the film star was gracing the place with her presence then this New Year’s Eve party belonged firmly in the second category.

  Amory Laine was a dark smouldering waif of a girl, the darling of the Icon Film Company. There didn’t seem to be a magazine cover or a newspaper on a news-stand these days which didn’t feature Amory’s little heart-shaped face somewhere on it, with her trademark raise of the left eyebrow and surprised-looking cupid’s bow pout. She had starred earlier that summer in a smash hit of a silent movie, Innocent and Naïve, playing the lead role; a sweet, fragile country girl seduced by the bright lights of the city, who then gets into trouble and realises the error of her ways too late. Posie had seen the film with her friend Dolly, and had enjoyed the box of truffles she had purchased far more than the film itself.

  If truth were told, Posie had found the look of Amory Laine very annoying, but she told herself to reserve judgement now until she had actually met the girl: Posie knew that part of her inherent hostility was no doubt a case of the old green-eyed monster rearing its ugly head, and that pangs of jealousy on her part about the girl’s beauty and trimness of figure wouldn’t help Inspector Lovelace at all on whatever undercover work they were to be engaged upon.