Murder at the Folly Read online

  Table of Contents

  MURDER AT THE FOLLY

  Dedication

  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

  Also By Beth Byers

  Also By Amanda A. Allen

  Sneak Peek of Spaghetti, Meatballs, & Murder

  Author’s Note

  Copyright

  MURDER AT THE FOLLY

  THE VIOLET CARLYLE MYSTERIES

  BOOK 3

  BY BETH BYERS

  For ReGina Welling. Your support has meant the world.

  Chapter 1

  “Codswallop,” Victor read with a chuckle, snapping the newspaper that had arrived from home and leaning back to relish the review. He even set down his cigarette after a long drag and cleared his throat, before swallowing the rest of his Ncocktail. The glass clinked as he set it on the table next to him, and he grinned engagingly at his siblings, preparing to continue reading aloud.

  Victor’s hair was slicked back, and he was dapper in his pinstriped suit with a twinkle in his eye that said the best was yet to come. Both twins—Victor as well as Violet—were tall and slim, with pointed features and dark coloring. Violet was a bit paler, but she was far more careful about protecting herself from the sun. When adding in the powder she wore, she was several shades lighter than her brother. Her eyes were kohled, her lips red, her cheeks rouged, and her hair was longer, but they were clearly twins—male and female sides of the same coin.

  “I object to everything about that story,” Isolde sniffed. “I was never as dim as your ingénue. That you based your Forsaken Virgin on me is…is….too mean!”

  “Darling, darling, darling,” Violet said, “You were willing to marry a fat, old man who was nearly older than Father. You even knew Danvers had a mistress—a girl your own age—but it wasn’t stopping you. You were downtrodden, sweet, forsaken one. Downtrodden, yes. Even still, darling, you were rather dim.”

  “Be nice,” their oldest brother, Gerald, mildly scolded. He smiled at both of them and then reached out and touched Isolde’s elbow as though to comfort her for her previous stupidity. “Continue, brother. I haven’t read your tripe, but I wish to hear the review all the same.”

  “I thought we were being nice,” Violet objected with a gasp.

  “I’m not the one who wrote the review,” Gerald said mildly, settling back in his chair and adjusting his shoulders. He waved his hand as if giving permission for Victor to continue reading the review of the twins’ book, even steepling his fingers to prepare for the article.

  Violet’s gaze narrowed. “Yet, brother dear, you were the one to use the word tripe.”

  “Darling one,” Gerald said, humoring her. “I am not the one who titled my story—” he deepened his voice, “—Forsaken Virgin Seduced by the Scarlet Ghost. You should have been prepared for the words tripe and codswallop. Those might be the kindest words one could use.”

  Vi giggled, because she couldn’t hear or say that title without laughing, and then tipped her glass at Victor. Then as one, the twins shot their older brother a furious, matching glance as if at daggers drawn. Only Lord Gerald Carlyle wasn’t bothered.

  Victor cleared his throat again. “Oh ho! Listen to this, love. ‘No doubt the person behind this V. V. Twinnings is Victoria Violet or some other such feminine persona proving, yet again, that women should never have been taught to read, let alone write. Somewhere in the world today is a father who regrets not just teaching his child to read, but the far greater sin of allowing her to read novels. He has learned—too late—to repent. A regret I share having been forced to gag down this drivel.’”

  Violet set down her glass with a precise click and crossed her arms over her chest. Her heel clicked against the floor as her rage exited through the steady tap, tap, tap of her foot.

  “I still hate the story,” Isolde said, glancing at the enraged Violet carefully. Lady Isolde Car Newstone was younger than the twins, with a creaminess of complexion that matched her blonde hair and blue eyes. She was curvier than Violet as well as being the basis for the ingénue from the novel. “But surely the worst of the tripe is from you, Victor.”

  Violet snorted while Gerald poked at Isolde.

  “What’s this?” Victor asked. “You object to the story of a young Isla manipulated by conniving relatives into a marriage for money where she was abused and tortured, driven nearly mad? Whyever for, sweet one?”

  The smirk on Gerald’s face quite burned Violet’s remaining rage. She giggled into her Negroni while Isolde’s enraged gasp filled the air.

  “I hate you all,” she declared. “You are terrible, horrible, awful siblings!”

  “We love you, little one. Wonderful news too, darling,” Victor said to Isolde, “I have a note here from my friend, St. Marks. He’s come to Bruges for the sea air or bright eyes. Your mother approves of his fortune. That should provide you comfort should you decide to throw yourself into his arms.”

  Isolde’s gaze narrowed, as did Violet’s. Vi knew all too well that the bright eyes in question were her own. She was also all too aware that Tomas St. Marks hadn’t come to Bruges for Isolde or Victor, though the men were as close as brothers. Tomas had come for Violet.

  Violet wished she could give her heart to him. She did love him, but only as she loved her brother, Gerald. Not as much as Victor, yet almost more than anyone else. Her heart, however, had left her. It was back in England with an over-sized, handsome Detective Inspector. Tall and dashing, his severe jaw and penetrating eyes had seemed to peel away her layers and see the person behind Violet’s cheery air. Let alone how his strong, large body made her feel small, something she’d become rather addicted to.

  Isolde’s mouth had dropped open, and she tried to hide her reaction by sipping her drink. She was too late and Victor crowed with triumph.

  Victor’s gaze turned to Violet despite the fact that he was teasing Isolde. Each twin knew the other better than they knew their own selves. No doubt he saw the flash of agony she felt, no doubt saw the desire to return home, no doubt saw how mentioning Tomas simply made her miss Jack even more.

  Victor nodded to her the smallest bit. It was enough. She knew that meant he’d seen her storm of emotions and would do something to help.

  “We’ve been invited to a party tomorrow, luvs. Tomas has taken some large monstrosity near here. We’ll go. We’ll dance, we’ll drink, we’ll eat something, Tomas will make eyes at our girls and you’ll flutter your lashes and play coy as though you aren’t calculating how many dresses his mountain of bullion will buy.”

  Violet kicked Victor, who smiled at her. He refilled her drink before topping his own. He didn’t bother with Isolde, who rarely finished a drink since they’d come to Bruges let alone Gerald, who was too boring for Negroni when there was bourbon present. The negroni, after all, was made with genever, vermouth, Campari, and an orange peel. According to Gerald, bourbon was the drink of the ages. It drove Victor mad that Gerald could hardly be persuaded to a sip of the concoctions Victor created.

  “What do you say we visit that little dress shop tomorrow?” Isolde asked Violet. “I have longing thoughts about that pale pink dress.”

  “I told you to buy it. It accents your coloring wonderfully,” Violet said as she sipped from her cockt
ail glass, noting the smear of her lipstick and telling herself she’d need to reapply before they went dancing.

  “Not that Vi objects to going shopping,” Victor said. “How many more trunks do you need before we return home, beloved?”

  “How many cases of genever and beer have your purchased?”

  He winked in answer with a hand over his heart and a wounded expression before picking up his cigarette again.

  “Mmm,” Violet replied, “exactly my thoughts.”

  Gerald leaned back. “So are you two still writing tripe now that you have loads of the green?”

  “Isla was born after our inheritance. Previous to Isla, we wrote the story of young Margaux the French orphan and the highwayman who loved her.” Victor grinned at Gerald’s shudder and added, “We couldn’t leave your Isla where we did, Isolde. Soon, dearest one, you’ll see Isla’s next adventure, Broken Surrender and the Scarlet Ghost. Was the Scarlet Ghost truly a spectre or perhaps Isla has an unknown champion? Return to Supernatural Tales to find out.”

  Gerald groaned while Violet laughed. It was possible Broken Surrender was an even more terrible title.

  Victor crossed his legs. “I, for one, cannot wait to see what happens next with our intrepid ingénue.”

  “You’re a fiend,” Isolde wailed. She sniffed and then took Victor’s cigarette. Isolde wasn’t much of a smoker and the ill-thought-out drag made her cough until her tears were streaming.

  Violet took the cigarette from Isolde. “Darling, go fix your makeup. I think we’ll be leaving rather soon, won’t we?”

  “A car will be here shortly,” Victor said. “Dinner, dancing, drinks. A delightful time for all.”

  Isolde rose and went to fix her makeup. The moment she left the room, Victor faced Gerald. “We’ll be going home next week, I think.”

  Gerald’s brows rose. “I wasn’t aware you were thinking of it, yet.”

  “Bruges is lovely.” Victor leaned back, folding the newspaper. “But we never intended to stay here so long. Violet has business to conduct, I have business to pretend to conduct. We barely took up residence in my house before we left. It’s past time, and we’d have long since left if not for Isolde being a bit of a clinger with Violet.”

  Gerald examined the twins. “Well, you said from the beginning that you weren’t going to stay for our whole trip, and it has been most of the summer. I was thinking myself that we should consider somewhere warmer before the winter.”

  “Perhaps the Cayman Islands or Cyprus if you wanted something warm,” Violet suggested. “Those are both places I’d like to visit now that we have some of the ready money.”

  “No, no,” Victor declared. “Monaco. It just rolls off your tongue and promises exotic fun, doesn’t it?”

  “You could come with us.” Gerald’s gaze was fixed on Violet with enough weight that she knew he was wondering if she wanted to go home to Jack Wakefield more than she wanted to see more of the world.

  Violet laughed merrily, refusing to answer the unspoken question. “We might have left Father too long alone with Lady Eleanor.”

  “Or,” Victor countered, “now that Father realizes the games she was playing, perhaps we haven’t given her enough alone time.”

  “If we leave her too long,” Gerald said softly, “she’ll warp that little blighter Geoffrey even more.”

  “There’s nothing to be done there,” Victor said. “Our youngest brother will always be spoiled. He’ll learn his place when the promises of his mother fail to come to fruition.”

  “And yet,” Violet said, “regardless of Father and Lady Eleanor and even young Geoffrey there are other needs to attend to.”

  Violet had many things to do, but the most pressing of which involved a baby. She had provided her villa on the Amalfi Coast to an expectant, unmarried mother and had promised to try to find a place for the baby. Vi needed to get back to London and look into the homes she’d had her man of business investigate. They needed someone who was kind enough to love the baby as though their own while also not being the type of person to take out the mistakes of the mother on the child.

  It was rather all too common for the sins of the parents to be placed on the child. Violet wouldn’t abide that for this baby. She was tempted to take the child in herself, but she was keeping that plan as a backup. Violet also needed to deal with business matters from her Aunt Agatha’s investment concerns and check in on the young girls she’d taken under her wing when she’d been trying to find out about the crimes of Isolde’s former-betrothed.

  She’d been writing to Anna Mathers, who was going back to school soon and had spent the holidays with her expecting sister on the Amalfi Coast, but Violet had only heard what was happening with Ginny Heyer because their butler, Hargreaves, was keeping an eye on the child. An unacceptable set of circumstances. Ginny had helped Violet recover the kidnapped Isolde. Violet would be damned before the child fell back onto the streets. She’d been placed into a school in London but she didn’t want to go. Violet could understand that all too well, but she wouldn’t see the girl get sucked into crime when she could rise above. Not after Ginny had been so instrumental in saving Isolde.

  It was only last December when Vi and Victor had gone to their aunt’s home to spend time with her and she’d been murdered. In the end, the murderer had ended up in asylum and Violet had become disgustingly wealthy. Victor, on the other hand, had become enviably wealthy.

  The twins had gone from Aunt Agatha’s home to the Amalfi Coast and then to London, where they’d met the dastard who had been betrothed to their little sister, Isolde. During the attempt to stop the wedding, the fiend had been murdered. The twins had been involved in both murder investigations.

  Those investigations had thrown Violet and Victor into the path of Jack Wakefield, a sometime investigator for Scotland Yard. Violet might just be head over heels. Her rational brain told her to slow down to be certain what she was feeling was love, while her heart screamed that she was well and truly gone in love. Both parts of her worried that he’d meet another woman while she took care of Isolde. The poor lamb had needed to leave London after the murder of her betrothed on her wedding day.

  Violet pasted a smile on her face that Victor recognized as a lie. She bounced onto her feet and said, “I better just go powder my nose before we go dancing.”

  Chapter 2

  “Violet, darling,” Tomas said, kissing her cheek. He had taken both of her hands when she arrived, squeezed them tightly for a moment before letting only one go. Tomas pulled her right hand through the crook in his elbow. “Come, meet all my friends.”

  She could feel him shaking slightly under her fingertips and guessed that he was having one of his poor days. “Tomas.” Her tone was half-indulgent and half-scolding. She squeezed his arm tightly, letting him take refuge in her presence. She was an anchor for him, helping him to avoid memories from the trenches. He’d survived the Great War, but he hadn’t done it unscathed. What he was thinking throwing a loud party like this she did not understand.

  Victor had parked the car while they entered, and Violet had been forced to hunt through the crowd for Tomas while Gerald had taken one look at the cloud of smoke, the dapper men who eyed Isolde like a prize, and tucked her arm through his and escaped with her to the dance floor.

  Tomas handed Violet a glass. “It’s a Collins on that tray, love. Is that all right? We can hunt up a waiter with champagne or another with G&Ts.”

  “This is lovely, Tomas.” Violet referred both to her drink and the massive house he’d rented. “This canal house is just like a fairytale.”

  “It is supposed to be, I think. These Belgians are a fanciful lot. Have you seen the Church of our Lady yet?” Violet nodded, but his invitation was undeterred. “Surely, you’ll go with me all the same, won’t you? Catch up about the old days? Perhaps tomorrow?”

  She knew she wasn’t going to avoid what was coming, so she smiled merrily and said, “Of course, my friend. Seeing you again is always a
trip back to our childhood. How many times did we race through the woods like changelings?”

  “All of the wonderful days,” Tomas said. “I used to think about the woods and our swimming hole every day in the trenches. I swore if I lived I’d swim every year in that hole.”

  Violet flinched inside, hating to think of him like that. “And did you swim this year?” she asked brightly.

  “I did,” he said with a grin down at her. She saw him from their shared childhood. As he was only a year or two older than Victor and Violet, they’d spent many a summer day barefoot together. “I went in March. It was so cold. It felt good until I caught the sniffles. All bunged up and held captive in front of a fire. Woolen blanket, buckets of tea, handkerchiefs for days, poor Mrs. Newstone having to listen to me whine.”

  “Oh, poor you,” Violet laughed. “You should have known better. Are you yet a boy?”

  He grinned as he replied, “All man, love. All grown.”

  “Tommy,” a thick Italian voice called and Violet turned with him to meet the woman. Her voice was deep and a touch too loud. When Vi faced her, all she saw at first was dark brown curls floating wildly around an olive face. The woman was a curvaceous bundle swathed in scarlet and black with jet beads and black fringe. The deep vee on her dress showed off far more of her chest than Violet would have been comfortable with.

  The woman slid her hand into Tommy’s free arm. “Who is this scrawny thing? She makes me feel three times the size I am.”

  There was just enough of a shimmy on her shoulders to indicate that she felt Violet’s small chest was something to bemoan and enough of an edge in that too-loud, husky voice to tell Violet she was unwelcome by at least one of the two.

  Violet smiled prettily and tilted her head. She winked at Tomas, who didn’t seem to quite know what to do with the loud woman. The Italian was leaning into Tomas’ space, and Violet could feel him stiffen under her hand.

  Violet turned so that Tomas was pulled towards her and out of the woman’s hands. “Violet Carlyle. Tomas is my dear friend.”