The Discreet Investigations of Lord and Lady Calaway
Book Three: A Murderous Inheritance
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
A MURDEROUS INHERITANCE
First edition. March 15, 2020.
Copyright © 2020 Issy Brooke.
Written by Issy Brooke.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
One
Tavy Castle, near Plymouth, England’s south coast
September 1893
Author’s note: this book is written in British English. It has been edited professionally, but the grammar, spelling and vocabulary may be unfamiliar to some readers.
ADELIA STEPPED OUT of the Norman keep and onto the stone walkway that ran all around the top of the square tower. A high wall with crenellations stopped any accidental plummeting to one’s death many feet below, yet she still felt an illogical tingle of nervousness as she put her hands on the top of the rough stone and looked out at the view. The ground far below seemed to tug at you, she thought.
Even with dusk falling, the scene from the high tower that stood at the heart of Tavy Castle was impressive. The rolling hills of Dartmoor were black lumps against a sky so deeply blue it was like a jewel, and to the other side, she could see a flat silver line which was the sea. Beyond the horizon, more sea, endless sea, seas upon seas – and somewhere sailing upon them was her son-in-law, Percy Seeley-Wood, the twelfth Earl of Buckshaw. Tavy Castle was his ancestral seat, not that he seemed to do much sitting in it. Lord Buckshaw was an explorer, driven by the curse of the British Empire to scour the globe for things to acquire – spices, cloth, gemstones ... and of course, land. He said it was in the service of Her Majesty but Adelia was not fooled. He served his own wanderlust. When Adelia had suggested that he might be a potential suitor to her daughter Felicia, she had almost swooned with delight at the idea of being wed to a dashing buccaneer.
Adelia sighed. And how well was the marriage going, now? The Earl of Buckshaw wasn’t even here.
Lights twinkled on the ships in the far docks and harbours where the River Tamar spilled out to the English Channel. One of those vessels was the HMS Erebus II, and she shook her head at the idiocy of naming a ship after one that had been lost in such an ill-fated expedition decades before. What had ever happened to those men who sought the North-West Passage in 1845? She laughed to herself. Explorers were a funny bunch, it had to be said. But this new ship was to be hosting a grand floating ball in a few weeks’ time, just as the original HMS Erebus herself had done on a trip to New Zealand in the eighteen-forties, and everyone was abuzz with excitement for it. She had to admit that even she was intrigued. She had been to many balls in her long life, but one afloat was new to her.
Adelia turned her attention to the grounds immediately around the castle itself. While this central tower was ancient with nods to the Norman Conquest, many of the actual living quarters of Tavy Castle that had sprung up around the tower were merely Tudor in origin, with low beams and wide fireplaces and leaded windows that let in more cold than light. Right now, she longed for a breath of cold air. September was stuffy, hot, stifling in fact, with not a breeze to be had. She’d climbed the endless stairs to this tower just to seek out a whiff of freshness but she was disappointed. The atmosphere was as close and oppressive up here as it had been down in the main house below.
Another light caught her attention. A stocky man was down there in the grounds, carrying a lantern as he approached Tavy Castle. There was still enough twilight to let her see that he was coming from a man-made hump in the gardens, which was probably the ice house that had been built close to a stand of stumpy alders and willows. The man was too far away for her to be sure, but she thought it was likely to be Hartley Knight, the arrogant house steward, and she hoped that there would be ices at dinner that night.
A noise alerted her to someone else coming out of the tower and onto the walkway to join her. She turned and greeted Lady Agnes with a warm smile. “Good evening. There’s no fresh air to be had, even up here,” Adelia told her ruefully.
Lady Agnes nodded and did not return the smile. “I didn’t expect so, but one always hopes. I long for this weather to break. All the ships in the harbour are quite becalmed.”
“It will at least be better for the ball,” Adelia said. “I cannot imagine how it would be in a storm. It would not do to have to chase one’s supper across a tilting deck.”
Lady Agnes allowed herself a laugh and said, “I might dance a little better if I am being thrown about the floor. I am not blessed with light feet.”
Comments like that always took Adelia by surprise. For most of the time, Lady Agnes was a dour, silent, uncommunicative spinster in her fifties, who kept her thoughts and feelings to herself. If she shared anything, she probably did so with Percy’s grandmother, the indomitable ninety-three-year-old dowager who lived in the south wing in relative comfort. Relative comfort, that was, compared to the rest of the castle. Everyone called this aged lady The Countess except for Percy who called her Nanna as if he were still a child.
And Lady Agnes was Percy’s aunt, the sister of his late father. She was the daughter of The Countess, and she had inherited the right to be called “lady” though with no surname attached to the title. She had also inherited the daughterly obligation to look after The Countess until they both of them were dead. At
