Death Witnessed

  Death Witnessed

  A Poison Ink Mystery

  Beth Byers

  It’s a special friend that you can trust to be your very first reader.

  You were perfect then and even better now.

  Thanks babe.

  XOXO

  And for awkward, twenty-three year old Amanda

  The fodder for this story is delightfully funny these days.

  Who knew?

  Contents

  Summary

  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

  Also By Beth Byers

  Also By Amanda A. Allen

  The Rue Hallow Mysteries

  Summary

  April 1937

  Georgette Dorothy Marsh published a book when she was no longer able to afford cream for her tea. Without enough imagination to tell a story on her own, she wrote about her neighbors instead. Only her book became a bestseller and her village was ready to take up arms.

  She never expected the money let alone the results. One man died just after publication. After a pot of Lapsang Souchong at the local tea room, Miss Marsh witnesses another murder. When Miss Marsh realizes this murder is connected to her book as well, she turns to her friend, Mr. Aaron. Once again, he brings along his nephew, and they are back to attempting to find the killer, ensuring that Miss Marsh isn't the next victim, and hiding the real person behind this poisoned book.

  1

  GEORGETTE DOROTHY MARSH

  If there was a goddess looking down on Bard’s Crook on that sunny spring day, it was that minx Atë—the goddess of pranks and mischief. She’d cast her wily eye on the village, took in the new widow, Harriet Lawrence, happily sipping tea in her parlor while she curled up on her chaise lounge with a plate of biscuits. Was it Atë or fate that had Harriet glance out the window, note the sun rays pouring down on the wood and decide to venture into those depths?

  If it was Atë, perhaps she also cast her sly gaze on the doctor’s wife watching her rambunctious lads chase through the garden. If any creature would love those filthy bright-eyed creatures, it was their mother, seconded only by Atë.

  Perhaps then the goddess shifted her gaze from the boys to their mother’s friend, Virginia Baker. Mrs. Virginia Baker was a woman that Atë loved to hate. Virginia was not as beautiful as she made it seem nor was she as clever as she portrayed herself to be. It was rare for someone to consider again on the things Virginia had previously said with confidence and a little something in her air. If, perhaps, her words were weighted against facts, all would be shocked to realize how often Virginia’s thumb had been on the proverbial scale.

  There was one person who wouldn’t be shocked in the slightest. It was to her that Atë would next turn her gaze, leaving behind Virginia Baker for Atë’s favorite villager. Like all those who were roguish, Atë enjoyed the dichotomy presented by Georgette Dorothy Marsh. When one looked upon Miss Marsh, the discovery was an artless old maid. Well into her twenties with her looks as unpresuming as her artless demeanor, she was nothing that required a second glance. With her common, medium brown hair, medium brown eyes, far too many freckles, lips that were neither thin nor full, she was—to put it plainly—unremarkable. When one was to add in her tendency to watch the world around her and rarely comment with her true thoughts, it was a rare individual indeed who knew her for what she was.

  To know Georgette Dorothy Marsh, one had to journey behind her facade, behind her soft voice, behind her quiet demeanor, and peek into those candid eyes. Once one saw how cleverly she took in the world, the obliviousness of her neighbors was perhaps more shocking than anything else.

  Her reputation, indeed the very way she was treated, was even more shocking given that Georgette had recently started styling her hair to accent her rather delicate features and was wearing both clothes that fit as well as clothes that were not threadbare and worn when they were given to her. It seemed that entrenched notions, especially these that had existed for decades, were, in fact, impossible to adjust.

  That morning, Georgette Dorothy Marsh walked out of her cottage door rather innocently. Was she the secret author, Joseph Jones? Georgie wouldn’t admit to it when she could sidestep the question with an inane comment. She’d tuck back her wispy hair, avert her solemn gaze, and hope her pale skin didn’t prove her a liar.

  On that day, Dorcas, Bea, and Susan cavorted at her feet. The puppies she’d rescued from a box on the creek had turned into chubby dogs. They had those precious, loving gazes that only dogs possessed, proclaiming their love with each soulful glance. Being utterly adored, even if it was just by dogs, was the missing piece of Georgette’s life. She grinned at her thought and was grateful that no one could read her mind. Utter adoration was all that she was missing? What cheek!

  Well, adoration and more tea. Her most recent glorious splurge had been on a Bombay chai tea. She and her maid, Eunice, brewed the tea in milk, and it was a glorious treat. She was considering a blend of teas with coconut, roses, and green teas as well as a fruit tea made of golden pear. Then there was that cagey magician who had created a mixture of black tea, coffee, cocoa, and spices. Georgette’s next order would certainly include some of that black magic.

  “I read it again,” Marian called as she joined Georgie with her own dog. “I just love it so much.”

  Georgie gave Marian a quelling look and ordered, “Don’t speak of it.”

  Marian just laughed merrily. “I can’t help it. Now that I know who it is behind those characters, I just enjoy it all the more. Did Mrs. Baker really throw herself at one of Miss Hallowton’s boarders?”

  Georgette sighed and said low, “He did have an auto.” She suddenly cleared her throat as the woman approached.

  “Speak of the devil.” Marian tucked her arm through Georgette’s. “She’s become rather interested in me since my cousin, Harrison, visited.”

  “He also has an auto,” Georgie whispered wickedly, hiding her mischievous humor behind a vague expression. “Something avaricious this way comes.”

  Marian bit back a laugh and then used the humor in her voice to call a merry, “Hullo there! Lovely day for a walk.”

  “Marian!” Mrs. Baker said. “How lovely to see you.”

  Virginia Baker was a curvaceous and stylish woman who presented herself as the belle of every ball. It took a clever eye to notice the too-small eyes and thin lips behind Mrs. Baker’s occasionally engaging manner and perfect grooming.

  Marian squeezed Georgette’s arm at the snub.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Baker,” Georgette said. “It is indeed lovely to run across friendly faces on our little ramble.”

  Georgette smiled politely as Mrs. Baker’s gaze shot to her, narrowed, and then returned to Marian with that charming grin. Georgette had thought, more than once, that if a King Cobra had a smile, it would be rather like Virginia Baker’s.

  “Dear Marian, I was looking for you. I’m having a little gathering at my house to enjoy this weather. Just a few friends, conversation, tea and cakes, you know. It would be lovely if you and your cousin, Harrison, would come.”

  Marian glanced between Virginia and Georgette, clearly rather startled to personally witness the scorn. Georgette’s expression was a sort of half-absent blankness that Marian had already realized missed nothing.

  Georgette could see Marian�
��s fury, but in her opinion, this was a gift straight from the gods. Her book had been missing these little moments to give it flavor, and this one would do so well for her newest character. Mr. Aaron wanted the next book even more quickly than the last, and this would do quite well for the one she was just finishing.

  The click-clack of the keys on her typewriter over the last few weeks had been simply too exhilarating. She was thankful that no one could hear it beyond her cottage. She’d verified that with both Marian and her maid, Eunice.

  Her first book was something of an inexplicable success. She had rather innocently based her book off of her neighbors. She’d assumed they’d never know and hadn’t worried that she had been a bit unkind. Who would imagine that the book would sell as hers had? No one, she told herself every time she felt guilty about her neighbors’ reactions. They despised it. Which would have been hard enough to bear, but it had also caused a murder. A murder! Even now, she was shocked to realize that such a thing had happened.

  Perhaps she should feel guilty, but she couldn’t quite reach enduring remorse. Georgie had not lifted the cricket bat, but she had witnessed the dawning happiness in the widow’s gaze. She neither took credit for the happiness nor the murder and counted herself blessed that no one had realized who had written the book.

  “Just a few friends—” Virginia repeated as though it somehow excused not inviting Georgette.

  “Oh look,” Georgette said vaguely. They’d reached the library and there was a sign in the window. She stepped away from the other two, glancing back and seeing only Marian’s gaze. Georgette dared a wicked wink and then pretended to be absorbed by the little posting.

  After she read it the first time, she read it again.

  ALL WELCOME

  WEEKLY WRITERS GROUP

  TUESDAYS 7:00 P.M., SHARP

  SIGN UP SHEET INSIDE

  Georgette was concerned with her lack of inventiveness in her books. The one that would be coming out soon only had one character that was entirely fictional. Perhaps she could learn something from other aspiring writers. Her head tilted as she considered. Yes, she would certainly attend. She walked inside to speak to the librarian, another old maid from Bard’s Crook.

  Miss Hallowton was standing near the checkout desk. Her face was fierce as she tersely asked, “If you’re here to ask for The Further Adventures of Harper’s Bend, the wait list is at capacity.”

  Georgette’s eyes widened, and she shook her head quickly before Miss Hallowton could read anything else in her reaction. “I would like to sign up for the writing group,” she said quietly.

  If anything Miss Hallowton’s scowl deepened. “This is for a serious pursuit of writing.”

  Georgette nibbled her bottom lip. “I would still like to sign up. Are there rules that say I cannot?”

  Miss Hallowton pulled the clipboard out and smacked it down on the counter. “You’ll be asked to leave if you’re late or do not do your assignments.”

  Georgette simply nodded.

  “You’ll be expected to take turns providing refreshments. I will not be the only one to do so.”

  Georgette nodded again. Miss Hallowton turned to the portion of the library that was the post office and handed Georgette a few letters and two rather telling parcels. One was of three books that had been kindly sent, she had been promised, with false book covers. The other was her newest tea acquisition. With the publication of her newest book, Georgette had rewarded herself with pure luxuries. A box of Belgian chocolates, a rather extensive sampling of tea blends from a new shop, and a delightful Chinese style teapot made with purple clay called zisha.

  As Georgette thanked Miss Hallowton, the woman asked again. “Are you certain you want to join the writers group?”

  Georgette nodded. Miss Hallowton huffed and wrote down: Miss Georgette Marsh. Who, Georgette thought, was quite capable of hearing the librarian’s low muttering as she put the clipboard away. “I suppose we’ll have to take turns getting inane feedback until she gets bored.”

  Georgette’s solemn expression didn’t fade despite Miss Hallowton’s mood. Georgette did feel that Miss Hallowton, who was quite clever, would be significantly lovelier if she were just the smallest bit cheerier. Once again, Georgette reminded herself that she did not know the details of Miss Hallowton’s circumstances. It was possible, however, to extrapolate that like so many, she was struggling to get by. The woman ran both the post office and the library as well as keeping boarders. That much working alone told Georgette enough.

  She did want to be part of this writers group if it helped ensure her third book was as good as it could be. It seemed improbable that success somehow was more stressful than not having enough money to survive the winter, but it seemed that it was.

  “I would be happy to bring the refreshments for the first meeting,” Georgette offered consolingly. “Just let me know how many to account for, and I’ll come a bit early with something or other.”

  Miss Hallowton was mildly appeased as Georgette’s friend, Marian, opened the door to the library.

  “Miss Marsh?” Marian called from the doorway to the library. “Did you get what you needed?”

  Georgette turned to Marian and nodded quietly, and the girl came the rest of the way into the room. She wasn’t a girl, not really, but so often Georgette felt that her youth combined with her utter lack of worries made her seem unfairly young.

  With a hidden, wicked grin, Georgette told Marian, “The wait list for that book you wanted is full.”

  Marian’s startled gaze flicked between Georgette and Miss Hallowton before she realized the book. “The Further Adventures of Harper’s Bend?”

  Georgette nodded. Marian laughed too hard for such a casual thing and earned a hard glare from Georgette. “Oh, I ordered a copy. I am hoping that it will be delivered early.”

  “I doubt that will happen,” Miss Hallowton said sourly. “I can’t get early copies here at the library, so why should you? Everyone wants that book after what happened with the last one. The more I think about it, the more certain I am that it was all a bunch of odd coincidences.”

  “That’s just what Miss Marsh says,” Marian replied, ignoring Georgette’s veiled glare.

  “Mmmph,” was Miss Hallowton’s only reply. She finally eyed Marion. “Unless you’re here to check out a book, work on something quietly, or sign up for the writing class as Miss Marsh has done, you’d be welcomed to loiter elsewhere.”

  Georgette turned immediately as she was already concerned they’d left the dogs too long, but she didn’t quite escape in time to avoid Marian’s exclamation. “A writers group?”

  “Yes,” Miss Hallowton nearly growled. “I hardly have time for dilettantes. Some of us are pursuing a serious writing career.”

  Marian bit down on her bottom lip hard as she snorted. “Oh, do sign me up. I have been scribbling my own stories lately with the help of a friend. She is already a published writer. Quite excellent, in fact. Something of a surprise bestseller.”

  Georgette’s gaze narrowed, but she could do nothing more than escape the library before Marian’s barbs and lies revealed Georgette’s nature as the iniquitous Joseph Jones.

  2

  CHARLES AARON

  “I’m confused,” Joseph said, leaning back to puff on his cigar while the waiter cleared his plate away.

  “What is all that hard to understand?” Charles asked, giving his nephew a fierce look to change the subject. “I took Miss Harriet Moore to dinner and a play. It’s hardly notable.”

  “Oh, of course.” Joseph Aaron chuckled heartily, almost choking on his cigar smoke.

  Charles slowly lit his pipe, preferring the sweeter scent of pipe tobacco, before he leaned back himself, lifting his glass of port with his free hand. He knew, of course, exactly why Joseph was laughing, but Charles wasn’t a masochist and preferred not to linger on his agony.

  “Tell me about Miss Moore,” Joseph said, with the corners of his mouth still quivering.

&nbs
p; “She is a sweet woman. Kind. Ah—”

  Joseph already looked as bored as Charles had been that evening. The more he thought of not being a bachelor, the more he told himself that he should very much dislike married life. When the thought wouldn’t leave him be, he decided to let his gaze roam the field, so to speak. To say that Harriet Moore was better suited for another man was, perhaps, the kindest way to describe the evening.

  “You were bored dumb, were you not?” Joseph asked his uncle.

  “Why would you say that?” Charles kept the question light as though his nephew could not possibly be correct, but his tone didn’t succeed.

  “Does Miss Moore write books?”

  Charles sniffed and then sipped from his port.

  “Is she quietly witty?”

  Charles didn’t bother to answer that question in favor of sipping from his port once again.

  “I know that I’m younger than you,” Joseph told Charles seriously. “To be honest, I invited you to dinner for your advice. However—” Joseph searched Charles’s face almost fervently as if he wanted to mentally press what he was about to say into Charles. His uncle lifted a brow and Joseph continued. “However, you’re in love with Miss Marsh.”

  Charles laughed, but even to his ear, it was hollow.

  “If you’d known when you read that book that it was more than a clever tale, you’d have been half-entranced with that alone,” Joseph said. “Having met the people in her town, having seen how they treat her, having seen her kindness and her…her…fortitude, you fell head over heels, and all you’re doing with Miss Moore and her ilk is stalling.”