Enter Pale Death Read online

  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.”

  A puzzle. A young, unrelated, single girl of undeniable attractions could not possibly be here as a guest of the master, and yet she appeared to be at daggers drawn with the mistress. Most unusually, the young woman had turned up unaccompanied by male escort or lady’s maid. When Mrs. Bolton had offered the services of young Rosie to do the necessary, she’d declined them. Oh, politely enough—there was nothing wrong with her manners—but ha
d there been a touch of supercilious indulgence in her tone as she’d added, “I can tie my own shoelaces and brush my own hair, thank you”? She’d shaken her overly short London haircut and laughed. Mrs. Bolton marked her down as something of a renegade. One of those Bright Young Things. Even the Bloomsbury set when they visited—and they were odd enough—at least brought their maids with them. Maids! Their girls were not required to wear cap and apron, and expected to be called by their Christian names. And those would be borrowed from some Greek goddess, like as not. All that nonsense set a bad enough example, but this latest guest, trailing an atmosphere of unease and defiance in her wake, looked even more disruptive, Mrs. Bolton calculated. A Modern Miss Independent. Might even be a Socialist. She’d bear watching.

  Enid Bolton sighed. Three French maids, two warring women and one bemused housekeeper to keep the peace. Tin hats on, she reckoned, should be the order of the day.

  “DID YOU GET it? You did? Good girl! Let me see.” The voice was bubbling with eagerness and laughter. Grace’s mistress, sitting in silken pyjamas at her dressing table, put down her hairbrush and examined the contents of the supper tray. She tilted her nose in exaggerated scorn at the square of brown, spongey cake. “So that’s gingerbread. Are you supposed to eat it or bathe with it? I’ll take the cocoa, thank you, but this offering you can put over there on the table by the window. That shall be our laboratory, our home pharmacy. I want you to do the mixing—I can’t be doing with the stinks. Spices always make me sneeze. Now, let’s check we have all the ingredients.”

  Grace unlocked a drawer of the bureau and took out four small blue packets bearing the label of the local pharmacy. Her mistress took a crumpled scrap of paper from her jewel box, smoothed it flat and, putting on a country accent, read out the four items scrawled on it. The affected voice was meant to convey the roughness of the handwriting done in indelible pencil: “Rose Mary, Finnigrig, Sinnimun, Oil of Cummin.” She handed it to Grace for inspection.

  “All present and correct, ma’am, though the chemist spelled some of them differently,” Grace commented and put it away in her pocket.

  “Right-oh. Now you have to mix them all into a paste and spread it over the piece of cake.”

  “But they’re mostly powders, ma’am,” Grace said, peering into the packets. “How’m I supposed to make a paste?”

  “Oh, don’t be such a weed! Think of something!”

  Grace looked about her. “Your cocoa, ma’am? If there’s a drop left in the bottom of the cup … It’ll add to the flavour.”

  “Of course! Here, take it. Why don’t you combine all the ingredients in the cup? There, that’s the way. Urgh! How simply ghastly!” Her ladyship held a handkerchief to her nose. “What was that you just put in?”

  “That’ll be the cumin. Smells worse than a pigman’s old socks. This fenugreek isn’t much better. Took me ages to get it out of the chemist. Old Morrison pretended not to know what I was on about when I asked for ‘finnigrig’ as it says on your list. ‘It’s a mite special,’ he says, ‘and not for putting about the place.’ And what did I need it for anyway, he wanted to know. He’s a suspicious old cove! I told him cook had requested it to make a curry. Indian gentleman expected at the house next week. That shut him up.”

  “You think of everything, Grace. Now mix it all up.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Anything else you’d like me to slip in there while I’m at it? ‘Eye of newt? Toe of bat? Adder’s fork?’… How does it go?”

  This was greeted with a shriek of laughter. “That’s ‘toe of frog,’ I think you’ll find. And, no, I shan’t be needing any of that rubbish. Not when I’m in possession of bone of toad! That’s the real stuff! Here, Grace, I want you to stir the mixture with this. Careful now! It’s precious! I’m not sure how strong it is. It looks a bit ancient to me. And I’ve sworn to give it back to its owner again in one piece.” She took from amongst the silver toiletry implements on her dressing table tray a three-inch-long piece of bone, the colour of old ivory and forked like a chicken’s wishbone. She handed it to her maid, who took it with a shudder of distaste and stirred the mixture gently with it.

  “Now, set the bone to one side to dry out and check in the morning that I’ve got it safely hidden away in my left pocket. It has to be the left because that’s the side the Devil favours or some such rot. The bone’s the important bit of the magic. Absolutely crucial! Nothing works without it.”

  Grace dropped it onto the supper tray, turned her back on her mistress and made the sign of the cross over her chest. “Didn’t much care for the feel of that old toad bone in my hand, madam. Cold and soapy. It fair gave me the creeps.” Her voice was pitched unnaturally high with the strain of daring to disagree with her mistress. “Not sure we ought to be fiddling about with magic. It could all turn nasty.”

  “Nonsense! Untested magic I would have no truck with, but I’ve seen this work with my own eyes. Magic? It’s practically science! I have my information and instruction from the very best practitioner. Neither of us must breathe a word, though, or we’ll have the clod-hopping peasantry of this whole benighted county vowing vengeance. Mum’s the word, Grace!”

  Grace bit her lip and bobbed to show her understanding. Her city-bred mistress forgot—or didn’t care—that her maid was of Suffolk stock herself. She tinkered about for a few minutes more, the homely activity of spreading and slicing the gingerbread calming her. She began rather to enjoy herself, like a child at a dollies’ tea party. “There, that’s all done. It’s neat and in a hand-sized lump, but it’s a bit sticky. I’ll put it into one of these empty chemist’s bags so it won’t spoil the inside of your pocket.”

  “Thank you, my dear. Put it away in the closet for the night, will you, and spray my pillows with rosewater. Then you may retire. It’s almost midnight! Leave the door unlocked so that you can come straight in without knocking in the morning. We don’t want to wake the whole house. Just be sure to wake me well before dawn.”

  NIGHTTIME SHOWERS HAD left the ground sodden, and Grace was glad she’d had the forethought to search out a pair of gumboots in her mistress’s size in view of her destination. It was quite a hike down to the Home Farm, and at crack of dawn on a misty April morning, the stables were likely to be a bit nasty underfoot. The wind had turned at last, sending rainclouds racing away in tatters, and a slash of pink on the eastern horizon promised a fine fresh morning. In the darkness, Grace could only just make out her ladyship, but she could hear her clearly enough and cringed as she heard her hailing the two stable-boy escorts in her hunting-field voice. She was wearing a sensible riding outfit over which she’d flung a baggy waterproof cape with two large pockets.

  The lads, blinking and bleary, answered up shyly, assuring her that all was ready. She turned with a triumphant smile, patted each pocket in a pantomime of exaggerated care for Grace’s benefit and gave a playful farewell flourish of her riding crop.

  Grace, from the back doorstep, watched her mistress march off into the morning mist to perform her magic. The maid’s body twitched as training did battle with instinct; dutiful obedience helped her to fight back an almost uncontrollable urge to chase after her and somehow find the words that would persuade her to give up her mad scheme. Resentment and anger flared, and thoughts beginning with “Serve her right if …” had to be quickly censored. The woman had no idea what she was dealing with, the danger she was running into. Grace had done her best. She’d always had her doubts but, this time, she’d taken advice from one who would know and acted on it. It wouldn’t be the first time the maid had deflected harm and criticism from the mistress and always without acknowledgement, let alone thanks.

  A last flurry of rain came from nowhere to slap her face with cold reproof, and she hurried back inside to seek out warmth and companionship in the kitchen.

  THE HORSES WERE already awake, stamping and neighing gently, listening for the sounds of their grooms. The horsemen were as regular as clockwork and would be here to feed them their first bait
of the day at five o’clock. The two lads collected gear from the tack room as they’d been told to and presented themselves, ready to harness the horse their mistress had picked out. She led them past the lines of saddle horses and through to the farthest corner of the cobbled stable yard where the farm horses were billeted. Eight magnificent Suffolk Punches, the pride of the Home Farm, held court here. Four matched pairs—expensively matched, all being of the coveted bright chestnut colour—would, by seven, be fed, brushed, harnessed up and turning out to work the fields.

  The men were behind by a full week with harrowing the winter wheat, waiting for the chill east wind to stop scything in over the North Sea from Russia. The heavy horses, too, had had enough of this long winter. They had sensed the change in the wind and, raring to go, stepped up to their half-gates. Sleek, noble heads peered out, red-gold with intelligent eyes, welcoming the sounds of humans in the yard with a gentle whickering. The boys had grown up with these animals. They knew them as well as they knew their brothers and sisters. They started to count the familiar faces: Boxer, Scot, Jolly, Joker, William and the two mares Blossom and Gypsy. Seven heads. The lads exchanged glances full of foreboding.

  Number eight was refusing to show himself.

  Her ladyship stopped in front of the last stall in the line. She held up a hand, and the little procession came to a halt.

  They’d been praying that something or someone would intervene before she got this far, but here she was, only inches now from the Devil himself and half an hour to go before the horsemen came whistling down to work. The moment had come and the boys, brothers Sam and Tom Flowerdew, stood ashenfaced, twitching with a fear they were unable to express. They would normally not have ventured to say a word to their mistress on any subject and, if addressed directly, would have reddened and stumbled over their answer. Even so, pushed beyond the limits of reticence, the older of the two, Sam, burst out: “Beggin’ your pardon, missis, but ’es a right terror, that ’oss! ’Es new. Master not long bought ’un. We nivver so much as got a halter on ’im. ’E done for ’is leader, owd Jonas! Bit ’is ’and clear off to ’is elbow.”