Death by the Book: A 1930s Murder Mystery (Poison Ink Mysteries)

  Death By the Book

  A Poison Ink Mystery

  Beth Byers

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  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

  Also By Beth Byers

  If there’s anything I love, it’s a good author with a large catalogue.

  With much love to those writers who went before and inspire my every day:

  Georgette Heyer, Dorothy L. Sayers, Ngaio Marsh,

  D.E. Stevenson, and hundreds more.

  Author’s Note

  This book was inspired by the books of the past. I wondered how fun it would be to throw in a murder for those small towns like Barsetshire for Anthony Trollope or Miss Buncle’s Book by DE Stevenson. I was in love with the crazy scenes Georgette Heyer puts together when all goes mad. I wanted to play with multiple perspectives like Anthony Trollope does in his Barsetshire Chronicles and Elizabeth Crawford does in Cranford and even J.K. Rowling does in The Casual Vacancy.

  This author always recommends those books over her own, with particular love for the authors listed above. They are, and always have been, my favorite writers. There are reasons that they are the greats of their age, and I am in awe of their brilliance.

  Chapter 1

  GEORGETTE MARSH

  Georgette Dorothy Marsh stared at the statement from her bank with a dawning horror. The dividends had been falling, but this…this wasn’t livable. She bit down on the inside of her lip and swallowed frantically. What was she going to do? Tears were burning in the back of her eyes, and her heart was racing frantically.

  There wasn’t enough for—for—anything. Not for cream for her tea or resoling her shoes or firewood for the winter. Georgette glanced out the window, remembered it was spring, and realized that something must be done.

  Something, but what?

  “Miss?” Eunice said from the doorway, “the tea at Mrs. Wilkes is this afternoon. You asked me to remind you.”

  Georgette nodded, frantically trying to hide her tears from her maid, but the servant had known Georgette since the day of her birth, caring for her from her infancy to the current day.

  “What has happened?”

  “The…the dividends,” Georgette breathed. She didn’t have enough air to speak clearly. “The dividends. It’s not enough.”

  Eunice’s head cocked as she examined her mistress and then she said, “Something must be done.”

  “But what?” Georgette asked, biting down on her lip again. Hard.

  CHARLES AARON

  “Uncle?”

  Charles Aaron glanced up from the stack of papers on his desk at his nephew some weeks after Georgette Marsh had written her book in a fury of desperation. It was Robert Aaron who had discovered the book, and it was Charles Aaron who would give it life.

  Robert had been working at Aaron & Luther Publishing House for a year before Georgette’s book appeared in the mail, and he read the slush pile of books that were submitted by new authors before either of the partners stepped in. It was an excellent rewarding work when you found that one book that separated itself from the pile, and Robert got that thrill of excitement every time he found a book that had a touch of something. It was the very feeling that had Charles himself pursuing a career in publishing and eventually creating his own firm.

  It didn’t seem to matter that Charles had his long history of discovering authors and their books. Familiarity had most definitely not led to contempt. He was, he had to admit, in love with reading—fiction especially—and the creative mind. He had learned that some of the books he found would speak only to him.

  Often, however, some he loved would become best sellers. With the best sellers, Charles felt he was sharing a delightful secret with the world. There was magic in discovering a new writer. A contagious sort of magic that had infected Robert. There was nothing that Charles enjoyed more than hearing someone recommend a book he’d published to another.

  “You’ve found something?”

  Robert shrugged, but he also handed the manuscript over a smile right on the edge of his lips and shining eyes that flicked to the manuscript over and over again. “Yes, I think so.” He wasn’t confident enough yet to feel certain, but Charles had noticed for some time that Robert was getting closer and closer to no longer needing anyone to guide him.

  “I’ll look it over soon.”

  It was the end of the day and Charles had a headache building behind his eyes. He always did on the days when he had to deal with the bestseller Thomas Spencer. He was too successful for his own good and expected any publishing company to bend entirely to his will.

  Robert watched Charles load the manuscript into his satchel, bouncing just a little before he pulled back and cleared his throat. The boy—man, Charles supposed—smoothed his suit, flashed a grin, and left the office. Leaving for the day wasn’t a bad plan. He took his satchel and—as usual—had dinner at his club before retiring to a corner of the room with an overstuffed armchair, an Old-Fashioned, and his pipe.

  Charles glanced around the club, noting the other regulars. Most of them were bachelors who found it easier to eat at the club than to employ a cook. Every once in a while there was a family man who’d escaped the house for an evening with the gents, but for the most part—it was bachelors like himself.

  When Charles opened the neat pages of ‘Joseph Jones’s The Chronicles of Harper’s Bend, he intended to read only a small portion of the book. To get a feel for what Robert had seen and perhaps determine whether it was worth a more thorough look. After a few pages, Charles decided upon just a few more. A few more pages after that, and he left his club to return home and finish the book by his own fire.

  It might have been early summer, but they were also in the middle of a ferocious storm. Charles preferred the crackle of fire wherever possible when he read, as well as a good cup of tea. There was no question that the book was well done. There was no question that Charles would be contacting the author and making an offer on the book. The Chronicles of Harper’s Bend was, in fact, so captivating in its honesty, he couldn’t quite decide whether this author loved the small towns of England or despised them. He rather felt it might be both.

  Either way, it was quietly sarcastic and so true to the little village that raised Charles Aaron that he felt he might turn the page and discover the old woman who’d lived next door to his parents or the vicar of the church he’d attended as a boy. Charles felt as though he knew the people stepping off the pages.

  Yes, Charles thought, yes. This one, he thought, this would be a best seller. Charles could feel it in his bones. He tapped out his pipe into the ashtray. This would be one of those books he looked back on with pride at having been the first to know that this book was the next big thing. Despite the lateness of the hour, Charles approached his bedroom with an energized delight. A letter would be going out in the morning.

  GEORGETTE MARSH

  It was on the very night that Charles read the Chronicles that Miss Georgette Dorothy Marsh paced, once again, in front of her fireplace. The wind whipped through the town of Bard’s Crook sending a flurry of leaves swirling around the graves in the small churchyard and then shooing them down to a small lane off of High Street where the elderly Mrs. Henry Parker had been awake for some time. She had woken worried over her granddaughter who was recovering too slowly from the measles.

  The wind rushed through the cottages at the end of the lane, causing the gate at the Wilkes house to rattle. Dr. Wilkes and his wife were curled up together in their bed sharing warmth in the face of the changing weather. A couple much in love, snuggling into their beds on a windy evening was a joy for them both.

  The leaves settled into a pile in the corner of the picket fence right at the very last cottage on that lane of Miss Georgette Dorothy Marsh. Throughout most of Bard’s Crook, people were sleeping. Their hot water bottles were at the ends of their beds, their blankets were piled high, and they went to bed prepared for another day. The unseasonable chill had more than one household enjoying a warm cup of milk at bedtime, though not Miss Marsh’s economizing household.

  Miss Marsh, unlike the others, was not asleep. She didn’t have a fire as she was quite at the end of her income and every adjustment must be made. If she were going to be honest with herself, and she very much didn’t want to be—she was past the end of her income. Her account had become overdraft, her dividends had dried up, and it might be time to recognize that her last-ditch effort of writing a book about her neighbors had not been successful.

  She had looked at the lives of folks like Anthony Trollope who both worked and wrote novels and Louisa May Alcott who wrote to relieve the stress of her life and to help bring in financial help. As much as Georgette loved to read, and she did, she loved the idea that somewhere out there an author was using their art to restart their lives. There was a
romance to being a writer, but she wondered just how many writers were pragmatic behind the fairytales they crafted. It wasn’t, Georgette thought, going to be her story like Louisa May Alcott. Georgette was going to do something else.

  “Miss Georgie,” Eunice said, “I can hear you. You’ll catch something dreadful if you don’t sleep.” The sound of muttering chased Georgie, who had little doubt Eunice was complaining about catching something dreadful herself.

  “I’m sorry, Eunice,” Georgie called. “I—” Georgie opened the door to her bedroom and faced the woman. She had worked for Mr. and Mrs. Marsh when Georgie had been born and in all the years of loss and change, Eunice had never left Georgie. Even now when the economies made them both uncomfortable. “Perhaps—”

  “It’ll be all right in the end, Miss Georgie. Now to bed with you.”

  Georgette did not, however, go to bed. Instead, she pulled out her pen and paper and listed all of the things she might do to further economize. They had a kitchen garden already, and it provided the vast majority of what they ate. They did their own mending and did not buy new clothes. They had one goat that they milked and made their own cheese. Though Georgette had to recognize that she rather feared goats. They were, of all creatures, devils. They would just randomly knock one over.

  Georgie shivered and refused to consider further goats. Perhaps she could tutor someone? She thought about those she knew and realized that no one in Bard’s Crook would hire the quiet Georgette Dorothy Marsh to influence their children. The village’s wallflower and cipher? Hardly a legitimate option for any caring parent. Georgette was all too aware of what her neighbors thought of her. She rose again, pacing more quietly as she considered and rejected her options.

  Georgie paced until quite late and then sat down with her pen and paper and wondered if she should try again with her writing. Something else. Something with more imagination. She had started her book with fits until she’d landed on practicing writing by describing an episode of her village. It had grown into something more, something beyond Bard’s Crook with just conclusions to the lives she saw around her.

  When she’d started The Chronicles of Harper’s Bend, she had been more desperate than desirous of a career in writing. Once again, she recognized that she must do something and she wasn’t well-suited to anything but writing. There were no typist jobs in Bard’s Crook, no secretarial work. The time when rich men paid for companions for their wives or elderly mothers was over, and the whole of the world was struggling to survive, Georgette included.

  She’d thought of going to London for work, but if she left her snug little cottage, she’d have to pay for lodging elsewhere. Georgie sighed into her palm and then went to bed. There was little else to do at that moment. Something, however, must be done.

  Chapter 2

  Three days later, the day dawned with a return to summer, and the hills were rolling out from Bard’s Crook as though being whispered over by the gods themselves. It seemed all too possible that Aurora had descended from Olympus to smile on the village. Miss Marsh’s solitary hen with her cold, hard eyes was click-clacking around the garden, eating her seeds, and generally disgusting the lady of the house.

  Miss Marsh had woken to the sound of the newspaper boy arriving, but she had dressed rather leisurely. There was little to look forward to outside of a good cup of tea, light on the sugar, and without cream. She told herself she preferred her tea without cream, but in the quiet of her bedroom, she could admit that she very much wanted cream in her tea. If Georgie could persuade a god to her door, it would be the goddess Fortuna to bless Georgie’s book and provide enough ready money to afford cream and better teas. Was her life even worth living with the watered-down muck she’d been forced to drink lately?

  Georgette put on her dress, which had been old when it had been given to her and was the perfect personification of dowdiness. She might also add to her dream list, enough money for a dress or two. By Jove, she thought, how wonderful would a hat be? A lovely new one? Or perhaps a coat that fit her? The list of things that needed to be replaced in her life was near endless.

  She sighed into the mirror glancing over her familiar face with little emotion. She neither liked nor disliked her face. She knew her hair was pretty enough though it tended towards a frizziness she’d never learned to anticipate or tame. The color was a decent medium brown with corresponding medium brown eyes. Her skin was clear of blemishes, for which she was grateful, though she despised the freckles that sprinkled over her nose and cheeks. Her dress rose to her collar, but her freckles continued down her arms and over her chest. At least her lips were perfectly adequate, neither thin nor full, but nothing to cause a second glance. Like all of her, she thought, there was nothing to cause a second glance.

  Despite her lackluster looks, she didn’t despise her face. She rather liked herself. Unlike many she knew, the inside of her head was not a terrible place to be. She had no major regrets and enjoyed her own humor well enough even if she rarely bothered to share her thoughts with others.

  Georgette supposed if she had been blessed with liveliness, she might be rather pretty, but she knew herself well. She was quiet. Both in her persona and voice, and she was easily ignored. It had never been something that she bemoaned. She was who she was and though very few knew her well, those who knew her liked her. Those who knew her well—the very few who could claim such a status—liked her very well.

  On a morning when Georgie was not worrying over her bank account, she could be counted on entering the dining room at 9:00 a.m. On that morning, however, she was rather late. She had considered goats again as she brushed her teeth—no one else in Bard’s Crook kept goats though there were several who kept cows. Those bedamned goats kept coming back to her mind, but she’d rather sell everything she owned and throw herself on the mercy of the city than keep goats. She had considered trying to sew clothing while she’d pulled on her stockings and slipped her shoes on her feet. She had considered whether she might make hats when she’d brushed her hair, and she had wondered if she might take a lodger as she’d straightened her dress and exited her bedroom.

  All of her options were rejected before she reached the base of her stairs, and she entered the dining room with an edge of desperation. As she took her seat at the head of the table and added a very small amount of sugar to her weak tea, her attention was caught by the most unexpected of sights. A letter to the left of her plate. Georgette lifted it with shaking hands and read the return address. Aaron & Luther Publishing. She gasped and then slowly blew out the air.

  “Be brave, dear girl,” she whispered, as she cut open the envelope. “If they say no, you can always send your book to Anderson Books. Hope is not gone. Not yet.”

  She pulled the single sheet of paper out and wondered if it was a good sign or a bad sign that they had not returned her book. Slowly, carefully, she unfolded the letter, her tea and toast entirely abandoned as she read the contents.

  Moments later, the letter fluttered down to her plate and she sipped her scalding hot tea and didn’t notice the burn.

  “Is all well, Miss Georgie?” The maid was standing in the doorway. Her wrinkled face was fixated on her girl with the same tense anticipation that had Georgette reading her letter over and over while it lay open on her plate. Those dark eyes were fixated on Georgette’s face with careful concern.

  “I need cream, Eunice.” Georgette nodded to her maid. “We’re saved. They want Chronicles. My goodness, my dear, wonderful woman, see to the cream and let’s stop making such weak tea until we discover the details of the fiscal benefits.”