Valentine's Madness: A 1920s Historical Mystery Anthology Read online

  Rosemary pulled her arm down to really look at Vera for the first time, and saw her friend burying a pert nose in a riot of blood-red roses Her heart lurching, Rosemary felt a burst of hope as if perhaps Andrew’s death and the long months alone might be nothing more than a fevered dream.

  Vera set the crystal vase full of flowers down on the coffee table in front of Rosemary and handed her friend the card that had been tucked among the fragrant petals. Unable to bring herself to open the card, Rosemary merely stared at it, turning it over in her hands while fresh tears welled in her eyes. “Who on earth could have sent them?” She asked aloud.

  “There’s only one way to find out.” Vera reached over and took the card, carefully opening it and reading aloud:

  ‘My dearest Betty,

  I still love you after all these years. My heart is filled with regret, and I wish I had been brave enough to fight for you as I should have done.

  If you still feel the same way, meet me at our special place in time to watch the sunset.

  I hope it’s not too late, and that you’ll be my Valentine today and every day forward.

  Love,

  JLH’

  “Well,” Vera breathed, “They definitely aren’t for you. I wonder if they were meant for one of your neighbors.”

  Even in her melancholy state, Rosemary was touched by the message written on the card, and her mind raced through the names of the people who lived on her block. “There isn’t a Betty on this street, I’m sure of it. Perhaps the florist made a mistake, and these flowers were supposed to go to one of the other London boroughs.”

  “It’s possible. Why don’t we call round and ask who sent them, and to what address. It would be a pity if they never reached their intended destination.” Vera strode back out to the front hall where the telephone was located and beckoned for her friend to follow.

  She waited for the operator to connect her to the Gold Crown Flower Shop, then explained the situation. “All right. I understand.” Vera said, and hung up. “This is the intended address. The shop girl also said there was no contact information given with the order. The fellow who made the order seemed nervous, and stressed clearly that the flowers were to go to Number 8, Park Road.”

  “Well,” Rosemary said, “The card did say after all these years, and we’ve only owned this house for the last five.”

  “So the gift might have been meant for some prior occupant?” Vera deduced.

  Rosemary nodded, “Yes, but you must remember, this building contained a series of flats when we purchased it. We spent a simply ghastly year turning it into a townhouse. It could have been any one of those tenants. Oh—” She jumped up, the dressing gown she’d worn all day billowing around her waist.

  “What is it?” Vera asked.

  “I’ve remembered something. We found a box of things during the renovation. Some letters and trinkets that were left behind. I’m almost positive they would have ended up in the attic. It felt wrong to throw them away, and I remember asking Andrew to store them somewhere out of the way. I’ll get dressed and then we’ll take a look, shall we?”

  Rosemary ascended the stairs to the second floor with a bit of the old spring in her step. Vera decided then and there that she’d help her friend solve this mystery even if it took until next Valentine’s Day if it would give Rosemary something to do other than sit inside a darkened house feeling sorry for herself.

  Chapter Two

  When Vera entered Rosemary’s bedroom, her friend had already dressed and was slipping on a pair of Oxford walking shoes. Entirely too drab without even a shiny buckle on the strap, Vera judged, but at least a low heel was better than no heel at all. It had been over six months since Andrew had passed away, and Vera wished Rosemary would dispense with the mourning garb and inject more color into her wardrobe. She firmly believed that one should dress the way one wished to feel, and a hint of whimsy might lift Rosemary’s mood.

  If history was any measure of the present, Rosemary would rebel rather fiercely should she suspect the slightest hint of coercion. She’ll have to come to it in her own time, Vera thought to herself, even as she decided to give her friend a less-than-subtle push as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

  “The attic shouldn’t be too dusty,” Rosemary promised, taking in the chic outfit her friend was wearing, knowing she’d prefer to remain free of dirt and cobwebs. “I’m positive Wadsworth sends the housekeeper round with a duster and broom on a fairly regular basis. Mrs. Moore is always trying to cut corners, but she’s no match for his iron control.”

  Vera shrugged off Rose’s comment and followed her down the hall towards the staircase that would lead to the top floor of the townhouse. As they passed the rooms that had been Andrew’s, Rosemary kept her eyes firmly on her destination. She’d as yet been unable to get rid of any of his things, and now habitually kept the doors closed to avoid seeing the reminders each time she walked through the hall.

  Her mind distracted by the desire to unravel the mystery of whom the flowers and note were meant for, she strode up the steps and pushed the dark thoughts away. The attic was the only section of the house that had escaped renovation, and though the plank floors beneath Rosemary’s feet matched the ones found throughout the rest of the rooms, they still bore the pockmarked evidence of past residents. Scratches from where someone had moved a heavy piece of furniture and divots left by a careless child marred the surface of the wood, but Rosemary knew that a bit of sanding would erase the imperfections and expose a new, pristine layer.

  She wished she could say the same for her tattered soul.

  “Thank goodness Wadsworth is such a pill.” Rose said, her eyes brightening as she scanned a bank of shelves that held boxes and cartons neatly marked in his distinctive hand. “He’s an absolute stickler for organization.”

  She reached past a carton containing one Haviland chocolate pot set, according to the label, to lay hands on a box marked only with a date prior to when Andrew had taken possession of the property. “Here it is.”

  Vera pulled an old but clean linen bed sheet from one of the other shelves and spread it out on the floor before sitting down cross-legged and motioning for Rosemary to join her. Rosemary did, and by the time they’d started organizing the contents into little piles, she almost felt as though she were twelve years old again.

  “How many afternoons did we spend just like this in my attic at home, trying on musty old dresses from my grandmother’s trunks?” she asked her friend, a wispy smile on her face.

  “Too many,” Vera confirmed, “or perhaps not nearly enough! Look at this—it’s an old Valentine card.” She handed a faded piece of red paper to Rosemary. It looked like half of a heart, and once unfolded, revealed a delicate construction made of several layers of paper lace.

  “You know,” Rosemary mused, “people used to create secret-message compartments in Valentines like this one to ensure a girl’s father didn’t read the words that were intended for her eyes only.” She gently sifted through the lacy sheets and discovered a tab hidden within the folds. Carefully, she tugged on it and, realizing it wasn’t actually attached, pulled it loose.

  Rosemary held her breath as she unfolded the tiny slip of paper, and smiled in delight at Vera when it contained a written message. “It says, ‘Doubt thou the stars are fire; Doubt that the sun doth move; Doubt truth to be a liar; But never doubt I love.’ That’s Shakespeare.”

  “Hamlet, if I’m not mistaken,” Vera agreed. “Is it signed, or addressed to anyone?”

  “No,” Rosemary confirmed, disappointment evident in her voice, “but look here, see the slant on the letter L? It’s the same as on the card that came today, so the handwriting matches. Let’s keep looking.”

  They spent a half hour examining the rest of the contents of the box, finding a variety of items that appeared to have belonged to a young girl. Rosemary unearthed an ancient doll whose painted face was so faded and whose hair was so matted, she looked more like something from a
horror film than anything a child would want to take to bed with her.

  “Put that thing away. It’s absolutely shudder-worthy.” To prove her point, Vera shuddered as she turned a velvet bag upside down to reveal a set of marbles in such good condition it seemed likely no one had ever played with them.

  As the box disgorged more of its contents, Rosemary set aside a stack of handwritten recipes that she thought her cook might like to peruse, and then finally, she found something that might be useful.

  “Vera, look at these.” She hastily put the rest of the items back into the box and untied the string around a bundle of letters addressed simply to Elizabeth. “They’re dated from 1910, so that fits in with the all these years line of the note. It’s been over a decade. Do you think it possible this Betty is still unmarried? Or even still interested in someone who, by his own admittance, gave up the fight at the least sign of resistance?”

  “I predict Betty is a happily married homemaker with a passel of children clinging to her skirts. I’m basing my conjecture on the fact she didn’t take these with her. But, you never know. Let’s see what this mysterious JLH had to say.” Vera reached for one of the letters and after reading for a moment let out a low whistle, “Listen to this:

  ‘My dearest Betty,

  You looked so beautiful the other day, I could hardly stand it. Watching you from afar is the worst sort of torture. All I want is to be by your side. To take care of you and show you the love I have in my heart. Please be patient with me while I figure out a way to make both our dreams come true.

  Ever yours,

  JLH’”

  Chapter Three

  Listening to the contents of the love letter, Rosemary’s opinion swung back and forth like a pendulum. “He certainly knows all the right words to set the unwary heart aflutter, doesn’t he? The rest of these seem to be more of the same. But, if he felt that way, why didn’t he try harder? I can’t decide if he deserves our help or not.”

  “Oh, Rosie, don’t be so cynical. We don’t know what the situation was. We don’t know anything about these people.” Yet, Vera saw a chance to draw Rosemary from out of the depths of her doldrums.

  “What do you say we try to find out? You must know what our next step should be—after all, you helped Andrew with all those cases, and, when we were young, you always won the day when we played at hide and seek. You are always the first to solve a puzzle. Come now, you must join me in a bout of well-justified sleuthing.” Vera jutted her bottom lip out into a pout she knew Rosemary couldn’t resist and wheedled. “Take a flight of fancy; it might make you feel better.”

  As Vera hoped, Rose laughed and swatted her friend on the arm. After all, Vera was right. Rosemary had been instrumental in helping her late husband solve many cases. As proprietor of Lillywhite Investigations, her husband had parlayed his experience in the police force into a successful detective agency.

  Since many of his cases involved missing persons, he’d first begun to utilize Rosemary for her artistic talents. Eventually, he came to realize she had much more to offer in the form of exemplary deductive skills. They’d become a team, and as much as it might hurt her to solve a mystery without him, she knew he’d want her to help someone in need if she were able.

  “Fine, fine,” she said with a flutter of her hand. “If your heart is set on it, we will find her. But if this blows up in our faces—or in poor Betty’s face—you may carry all the blame.”

  “I can handle the stain on my conscience, Rosie, don’t you worry about that.” Vera laughed, and Rosemary knew her friend’s bald statement to be true.

  Rising nimbly, Vera flicked nearly invisible motes of dust from her clothes, gathered up the Valentine and letters, and carried them to the parlor.

  “What’s the next step, my intrepid sleuth? How does one track down a long-lost love?” Vera rattled off several fanciful notions. “Or do we inspect the letters for finger marks? I find this caper truly riveting.”

  “You are easily amused.” Rosemary’s smile belied the dry tone of her voice. “It is always wiser to take the easiest course in these situations. I can ring the real estate office and get the name of the previous owner, who should be able to put us on to Betty.” Or search through the papers in Andrew’s office for the same information, but then, that would mean entering Andrew’s office, and Rosemary preferred to avoid that part of the house at all costs.

  “Hmph.” The plan fell somewhat short of Vera’s expectations. “Rather a letdown for the job to be so simply accomplished when I expected an opportunity to wear black and skulk in dark corners. Is all detective work of such humdrum nature?”

  “You read too many novels based on silly notions, Vera dear. Real life rarely matches up to fiction.”

  “Oh, come now,” Vera waggled her eyebrows. “There must have been some excitement to the game—a spicy scandal now and then to make things interesting.”

  Sensing a plot of some sort, Rosemary asked, “Why the thorough fascination with investigative work? Not an iota of interest did you show while I was engaged in the work, and now you seem utterly absorbed. If this is a ploy to drag me out of my widow weeds and back into society—”

  “Oh! Rosie darling, don’t work yourself into a state,” Vera scoffed. “I only saw you perk up at the prospects, and I shall own up to fostering the spark. Really, what’s the harm in looking for a divine piece of distraction? I find myself becoming bored with the normal pursuits. Don’t begrudge me a bit of fun. Now, what’s our next step?”

  “I will admit I’m beginning to invest myself in the outcome. This would be my first case that paved the path clear for true love. Providing we find Betty, and she’s willing and able to indulge, that is.”

  Imbued with a renewed sense of purpose, Rosemary made short work of the call to the real estate agent, and within a few minutes had the name and current address of the former owner written on a square of paper. “Shall I phone him, or would you prefer to call upon Mr. Newnham in person?”

  “Elegant manners dictate a visit, don’t you agree?” Delighted to see Rosemary willing to leave the house, Vera decided to push the envelope a bit. “The sun is shining, the air is unseasonably warm, and my car is parked at the curb.”

  The flippant comment gave Rosemary pause. “You drove here?” She had taken lessons from Andrew, who was properly careful and cautious behind the wheel. Vera, she knew from past experience, employed a cavalier approach to operating such complex machinery.

  “Naturally. It’s a lovely day for a jaunt.”

  Suddenly, the lark of finding Betty lost some of its shine.

  “I’ll just save time and phone him, shall I?”

  Rosemary ignored Vera’s restless turn around the room while she waited to be connected, then stated her business to the maid whose timid voice trembled, and then she waited longer while the maid elicited an answer from the master of the house.

  “I’m sorry, Miss, for taking so long.” Blustering male tones sounded in the background. Abruptly, a male voice rife with impatience, rattled off three names and disconnected the line.

  Armed with information, Rosemary grinned at Vera and strode into the kitchen, where she rummaged through cupboards until she found a small blue box with a ribbon wound round its middle.

  “This ought to do the trick.” She refused to elaborate and left a stunned Vera helpless to do anything other than trail along behind. On her way out the door, Rosemary settled a stylish cloche over hair that could have benefited more from a bout with a comb. Down at the end of the street, Vera marched into the post office and, using the tin of chocolates, shamelessly bribed the postmistress to part with information.

  The sense of familiarity with which the transaction was completed indicated to Vera that this was not the first time these women had embraced such activity. Presently, the tin and a folded piece of paper exchanged hands, and the deal was struck.

  Outside, Rosemary handed the note to Vera, who read it and considered. “Too far to walk.” She
lifted a pretty ankle to show off icepick heels more suitable for going out dancing than walking across town.

  Once committed to going through with the case, Rosemary saw no other option and sighed with such force Vera took pity. “You drive.”

  Chapter Four

  “This is it, Vera.” Rosemary stared at the building, a set of flats in an old three-story made of brick, with a well-kept front stoop bordered with plantings and freshly-turned soil. She wondered if Elizabeth Brown had begun planting early bulbs in order to brighten up the home.

  Standing out like the rose among the proverbial thorns, the patch of garden struck a plaintive note amid the rest of the modest flats crammed into rows on either side of the street.

  Taking the lead, Rosemary briskly approached the front door and pressed the bell for number three, where a dog barked from somewhere inside. A few moments later, an attractive woman not more than a handful of years older than herself answered the door.

  “Can I help you?” she asked, her eyes widening at either the sight of the vase full of roses or the woman carrying them. Smiling face above the blooms, Vera made a pretty picture.

  “I hope so,” Rosemary said. “Are you Elizabeth Brown?”

  “I am,” she answered with some reluctance. “And you are …?”

  “Rosemary Lillywhite, and this is Vera Blackburn. May we come in and speak with you for a moment or two?” Rose felt as though she was intruding, but this wasn’t a topic to be discussed upon the front stoop for all and sundry to hear.

  Betty nodded, and politely ushered them inside. “Please, call me Betty. Everyone does. I’ve only just put the kettle on to boil. It will be a few minutes before tea is ready. Have a seat, won’t you.” She indicated a clean but slightly tattered sofa upon which Rosemary and Vera perched after setting the flowers on the low table. Once her guests were seated, Betty followed suit.