Death by Blackmail Page 6

  Charles had risen early after his dinner with Mrs. Parker and worked the dawn hours away in his bedroom only because Mrs. Parker had commandeered his morning, along with Joseph, to introduce Joseph to her friends.

  Charles appeared at the morning visit, said charming things to those who had been invited, noting the absence of Marian’s closest friend, and then escaped as soon as possible only to discover that his love was rambling about the village.

  “She left you that article you asked for,” Eunice told him. She pulled pages from the small roll-top desk in the parlor.

  Charles read it over quickly, knew it would do for their purposes, and examined his watch. He could just make the train to London and get the article to his partner. It would come out just as Georgette was supposed to pay the blackmail.

  “Tell her I’m hand-delivering it to London. I’ll be back in the morning for tea.”

  Eunice nodded and then added, “If you’re playing with my girl’s feelings, I’ll find a way to make you pay.”

  Charles smiled at Eunice with an expression almost as gentle as the ones he reserved for Georgette. “I’m not.”

  While Charles was making his way to the train, he came across the one person he’d tried to avoid since his first day in Bard’s Crook.

  “What’re you doing here?” Mr. Thornton demanded, dropping down on the seat next to Charles. “Been causing more trouble with that author of yours?”

  Charles considered Thornton and then said casually, “The books have been full of things that never happened in Bard’s Crook. I’m still not so sure why your village is so determined to vilify the author.”

  Thornton harrumphed and then leaned back to light a cigar. “I just bet you don’t.”

  Charles lifted a brow and adjusted his satchel. “In times such as these, if it came out that Bard’s Crook was the basis of Harper’s Bend, your Miss Hallowton just may discover she has more visitors. It’s not such a bad thing to have vague likenesses between a successful fictional town and your home.”

  “Vague,” Thornton harrumphed. “Poppycock. The author is a fiend and deserves to be strung up.”

  Charles sighed and shook his head. Georgette really must leave Bard’s Crook, that was all there was to it. Perhaps Robert had been able to find a nice set of rooms? Or perhaps Georgette would accept his offer, and he could install her in his own rooms while they searched for a house for their family.

  “Have you heard of the rumors of blackmail in Bard’s Crook?”

  Thornton snuffled. “Thought all that ended with the most recent arrest.” Those prodigious eyebrows that Georgette had described so well shuffled about the man’s face, giving him an air of righteous indignation.

  He didn’t reference the fact that the criminal was his son, and Charles gave the poor man the anonymity he desired.

  “No,” Charles said. “It continues still. The victims are primarily housewives and poor women.”

  “Everyone is strapped for cash these days save a fortunate few. Who can pay it?” Thornton adjusted his shoulders and shook his head. “Probably another lie by your author.”

  Charles didn’t shout at Thornton for his stupidity and if he’d known the people better, he’d have tried to explain. Someone like Thornton might be able to help them find the blackmailer if he was willing to try.

  Harriet Lawrence

  The only person who knew that Harriet Lawrence had a child while she was a seventeen was her husband, Bertrand Lawrence. She’d had the baby, given it to a nice couple in the country, and returned to her home after a bad bout of ‘scarlet fever.’

  Bard’s Crook was not a place that forgave such mistakes. Especially of the women. The Thornton granddaughter might be able to live a relatively accepted life, but Harriet didn’t have a lot of faith in that. Harriet, herself, had given her baby up because she’d loved her.

  Marrying the father hadn’t been an option. Being the adopted child of a loving couple was far better than being the bastard of a young girl. Harriet’s mother had known the truth, helped her to hide her state, and then taken her daughter on a trip that had been extended when Harriet had been “struck” ill.

  If Bard’s Crook realized that Harriet had once had a child and then lived as the respectable Mrs. Lawrence, the village would turn on her. Perhaps, Georgette would understand. Though Harriet wasn’t sure how Georgette could, she knew the woman had a kind heart.

  If Harriet were being totally honest with herself, she’d known that Bertrand was not a good man. She hadn’t married him out of love but because she had thought she hadn’t deserved anyone better.

  Bertrand had discovered a letter about the girl and had beaten Harriet until she confessed the truth. He’d never spoken of it again, but she knew he’d never forgotten. It was only Bertrand who could have spoken of her little girl.

  Who, however, had he told? Harriet would do whatever it took to protect her daughter. She’d bankrupt herself if necessary and without a second question. Somehow, however, the blackmailer had an idea of what Harriet could afford and asked just short of that amount.

  Perhaps, Harriet thought, that was the key. Who did she know who might be aware of both her finances and could have gotten the information from Bertrand? Harriet set aside her book and her tea and paced as she considered.

  If anything, she’d have guessed the writer, Joseph Jones. Whoever that person was, they were insightful and more aware of the inner workings of Bard’s Crook than anyone else Harriet could imagine.

  Juliette Hallowton

  Miss Hallowton’s second blackmail letter arrived in her own mail slot. She frowned at the parchment, noting the careful writing, the achievable amount and the secret that could ruin her new love. Miss Hallowton pressed her thin lips together and adjusted her spectacles on her nose.

  Perhaps Mr. Hadley would be understanding? If he still swore that he loved her, she might just be able to marry him, leave behind her jobs, and spend her life making him happy. Perhaps she should try to find the blackmailer? It had to be a woman. No one else would be as petty.

  Jennifer Enoch

  Jen knew she shouldn’t have let Jasper Thornton persuade her into the backseat of his auto. She knew she shouldn’t have let him put his hand up her skirt, and she knew that she shouldn’t have let him swear to love her. She had known, in fact, that as handsome and rich as he was, he didn’t love anyone but himself.

  Now he was in jail for murder and she was expecting. The blackmail letter was delivered with a neat hand, slipped into her mail as easy as you please. If her father had opened that letter, Jen may not have been able to sit again for the rest of her life.

  “What am I going to do?” she demanded of her best friend Clara.

  “I don’t know.” Clara’s gaze was wide and excited, and Jen wanted to slap her friend silly. But then she said something that showed she wasn’t utterly worthless. “It has to be a woman.”

  “Why?” Jen scoffed.

  “Because who else would recognize the signs? You aren’t that far along and don’t show.”

  Jen sighed and thought of all her options. She could go to Mr. Thornton and explain. Maybe he’d help her get rid of it? Maybe he’d help her hide it and then she could pretend it never happened? She wasn’t going to tell her father—that much was certain.

  Virginia Baker

  Virginia held the letter in her hands and examined its contents. It was too cruel. Too mean. If the contents were discovered, she’d never marry again. Her thoughts turned to the handsome Harrison Parker, determined to hook him soon. She had let her hand trail across his back and watched him shiver. Her corset was cinched to painful levels with her chest high and lovely, but he had barely noticed, absorbed with his idiotic book.

  Time was limited. She needed him as hers with—perhaps—a little one on the way before anyone discovered her secret.

  Martha Yancey

  Gretchen Marsh had been on Martha’s mind for the last few weeks. Gretchen had been the woman who had held M
artha’s hand when she’d buried a son to polio. Gretchen had listened to Martha’s ideas about having a tearoom someday. Gretchen had been Martha’s steady tea companion, and Gretchen’s only daughter had spent the last decade without her mother and without the friends she should have had.

  Now, whatever Georgette had done, she would have a friend in Martha Yancey, and Martha would do whatever it took to make up for the neglect she’d showed her friend’s only child.

  Agnes Thornton

  Unlike the others, Mrs. Agnes Thornton knew exactly who the blackmailer was. She knew it the moment she opened the letter with the neat writing. The blackmailer was not attempting to hide a single thing from Mrs. Thornton. The letter was even signed.

  But anyone would pay blackmail rather than have that secret discovered. Especially anyone who loved her husband and didn’t want to crush him further after the arrest of his eldest son. He had but one joy among his children, and Agnes Thornton would pay every cent to her name before she’d see him realize that his daughter was not, in fact, his.

  Chapter 9

  Georgette Dorothy Marsh

  “It was a good article,” Charles told her, watching her pace before the fire. “It will be well received.”

  “Only by people who don’t live in Bard’s Crook,” Georgette said, pacing more quickly as if the contents of the article were chasing her. “Do you think those rooms your nephew found will be all right? I don’t think I want to live in London. I’m not a city girl.”

  She glanced back at him and then thought over the list she’d memorized. It had read:

  -Convince Georgette I love her.

  -Convince Georgette to marry me.

  -Convince Georgette to find a house for us.

  -Find a house with

  -an office so I can work from home at least half the time

  -an office for Georgette so she can write dozens more books

  -room for children

  -room for too many books and more to come

  -a garden for smoking pipes in

  -a village that has an excellent pub

  -create a happily ever after?

  -convince Georgette to share her troubles

  -convince Georgette to find a village that will work for Joseph and Marian as well

  Georgette was trying the sharing her troubles item on the list. “I don’t want to live in London. I don’t even like it after a day. I like to visit to acquire good tea and furniture. I want to live in Bard’s Crook, but I want it to be different than it is. Bard’s Crook as it is for Marian or Theodora Wilkes. Where I’m not me and people like me.”

  “I like you,” Charles said gently.

  “That’s a comfort.” Georgette smiled and was surprised to find it very much was a comfort. “Given that this afternoon everyone is going to hate me.”

  “I won’t,” Charles said in that same gentle voice. “Marian won’t. I want to tell you that others wouldn’t either, but I don’t think they’ve ever loved you. Not really.”

  Georgette stared towards him, that gentle expression on his face, and ran the contents of his list through her head once again. She wasn’t sure that anything could have given her more comfort that his list for the life he dreamed for them.

  “May I ask you a question?”

  His head turned and he looked at her with those lovely, kind eyes.

  “Why do you love me?”

  “You believe finally that I do?”

  She nodded.

  “Because right now you’re preparing yourself to tell everyone your greatest secret in the effort to help them, knowing that some of them, maybe all of them, will snub you.”

  Georgette laughed but she didn’t feel all that amused. She was, in fact, terrified. Knees-knocking, heart-racing, vomit-inducing, hands-shaking terrified.

  “When I’m friendless, will you still love me?”

  He nodded.

  “Why?”

  “None of these people are your future, Georgie, except Marian and Eunice. Even if you don’t say yes to me, your writing has freed you from this place and the future that would have included them.”

  “It’s not a bad place,” she told him.

  “Not for anyone else. They don’t have big enough imaginations for you, Georgette Dorothy Marsh.”

  Her heart clenched in her chest, and she found that her vision had blurred. She didn’t know that it could be so painful to have someone recognize who she was and what drove her.

  She was unable to find the capacity to speak. It took her a long moment to say with forced brightness, “I better go, or I’ll be late.” She ran out of her cottage before she didn’t have the courage to go and hurried towards the hall. Marian was waiting for Georgette as she passed the first, busier street into the main of Bard’s Crook village, and her friend took in her expression silently.

  “Afraid?”

  Georgette nodded her head.

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “I feel a little like it,” Georgette admitted. “I think I might have realized what marrying Charles would be like.”

  “And it’s left you pale and ill-looking? Surely not.”

  “Not all women weep prettily. My charms will never be my looks.”

  Marian laughed and then took Georgette’s hand, squeezing it all the way into the meeting. The other ladies were just gathering as Georgette entered. She glanced around aimlessly, not able to take in the faces or what was happening. Her heart was pounding in her ears.

  Mrs. Thornton stood just as Georgette and Marian approached the table. They were given a reproachful, irritated look.

  “Before you begin,” Georgette said, knowing Mrs. Thornton would never look at her any differently. “I have something to say that involves all of us.”

  Mrs. Thornton harrumphed and started to cut in, but Georgette pushed onward. “We have a blackmailer among us.”

  The murmurs came to a complete stop.

  “I don’t know all the victims,” Georgette said, “but I know that it led to the death of Laurieann Schmitz when Jasper Thornton was tired of paying to have his secrets kept. He tried to kill the blackmailer and got the wrong woman.”

  No one said a word. Georgette glanced around, taking in the sight of Harriet’s concerned gaze, Theodora’s shocked look, the perpetually sour expression of Virginia Baker. Mrs. Parker was gape-mouthed and Mrs. Yancey was shaking her head slowly.

  “I received my first blackmail note almost two weeks ago warning that if I didn’t pay, I would have my secret revealed to the world,” Georgette said.

  Harriet shifted and said, “Georgette, you don’t have to tell us your secret. We all have a right to our secrets.”

  “I’ve already seen to it that the world will know it. I’m just here to apologize for the pain I’ve caused. Especially, my dear Harriet, to you. I am Joseph Jones.”

  The eruption of noise was a shock even though Georgette had thought she was prepared. She said nothing, waiting until Mrs. Thornton snarled, “That can’t be true. You’re…you’re…”

  Georgette smiled gently at the woman. “I’m the person no one notices and who everyone thinks is stupid. I ran out of money and was facing utter ruin. Rather than succumb, I tried my hand at writing a book. I was fortunate indeed to have my outcome reversed.”

  “But you have that rich uncle,” Theodora said. “This is surely a joke in poor taste. I would have thought better of you, Georgette.”

  “No one has a rich uncle in times like these,” Georgette said. “I fear that I really am Joseph Jones.”

  “You could not possibly be Joseph Jones,” Miss Hallowton cut in. “I’ve seen your writing. It’s not very good. You have never been, I am sorry to say, clever or even passably witty.”

  “Come now, Miss Hallowton,” Harriet said. “That is unkind.”

  “It is unkind,” Mrs. Thornton thundered, “to tell us these lies pursuing attention. I don’t care what rumors you heard about a blackmailer. There is too little to your
life to be worthy of notice let alone blackmail.”

  Georgette didn’t bother to answer that. “I won’t be paying any blackmail. I don’t think you should either. We are, all of us, less than we should be. If we were perfect, surely God would take us up into heaven. Seeing as how we’re all still here, maybe we could be more loving and allow each other the comfort of continuing to try to be better without judgement for our past sins. If we could trust each other with our secrets and ask for forgiveness, the blackmailer would have no ability to torture us.”

  “Hear, hear,” Marian said, taking Georgette’s trembling hand.

  “I am surprised at you,” Mrs. Parker told Georgette, “and I agree with you.”

  “I am so very sorry if my books caused you harm.” Georgette took a deep breath and then started coughing. “I’m so very…”

  “Oh my heavens!” Marian gasped. “Smoke! Fire!”

  Georgette spun and saw smoke coming in from under the door, which she had left open. Someone had closed it. The women were rising with alarm, but there were no flames in the portion of the building where they were.

  Someone screamed and several of the ladies began to cough as though seeing the smoke reminded them that the air was not clear. One of the younger mothers rushed the door while others were crying out in fear.

  Georgette noticed the vicar’s elderly mother trying to stand. Georgette hurried over as a rattling began at the door. A cry filled the air again and Georgette just made out the words. “It’s locked! Oh my goodness, it’s locked!”

  “Locked!”

  “It’s locked!”

  “We’re trapped.”

  “We’re going to be burned alive,” a woman moaned.

  Georgette glanced at Marian, took in her wide, terrified gaze and calmly ordered, “The windows.”