As Death Draws Near
PRAISE FOR THE LADY DARBY MYSTERIES
“[A] history mystery in fine Victorian style! Anna Lee Huber’s spirited debut mixes classic country house mystery with a liberal dash of historical romance.”
—Julia Spencer-Fleming, New York Times bestselling author
“Riveting . . . Huber deftly weaves together an original premise, an enigmatic heroine, and a compelling Highland setting.”
—Deanna Raybourn, New York Times bestselling author
“[A] fascinating heroine . . . A thoroughly enjoyable read!”
—Victoria Thompson, national bestselling author
“Reads like a cross between a gothic novel and a mystery with a decidedly unusual heroine.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Huber deftly evokes both [Sebastian and Kiera’s] attraction and the period’s flavor.”
—Publishers Weekly
“[A] clever heroine with a shocking past and a talent for detection.”
—Carol K. Carr, national bestselling author
“[Huber] designs her heroine as a woman who straddles the line between eighteenth-century behavior and twenty-first-century independence.”
—New York Journal of Books
“[A] must read . . . One of those rare books that will both shock and please readers.”
—Fresh Fiction
“Fascinates with its compelling heroine who forges her own way in a society that frowns upon female independence. The crime itself is well planned and executed. The journey to uncover a killer takes many twists and leads to a surprising culprit.”
—RT Book Reviews
“One of the best historical mysteries that I have read this year.”
—Cozy Mystery Book Reviews
Titles by Anna Lee Huber
THE ANATOMIST’S WIFE
MORTAL ARTS
A GRAVE MATTER
A STUDY IN DEATH
A PRESSING ENGAGEMENT
(an eNovella)
AS DEATH DRAWS NEAR
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Copyright © 2016 by Anna Aycock.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Huber, Anna Lee, author.
Title: As death draws near : a Lady Darby mystery / Anna Lee Huber.
Description: New York : Berkley Prime Crime, 2016. | Series: A Lady Darby mystery ; 5
Identifiers: LCCN 2016007702 (print) | LCCN 2016013169 (ebook) | ISBN 9780425277720 (softcover) | ISBN 9780698181779 ()
Subjects: LCSH: Serial murder investigation—Fiction. | Scotland—Social life and customs—19th century—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Historical. | FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Women Sleuths. | GSAFD:
Historical fiction. | Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3608.U238 A93 2016 (print) | LCC PS3608.U238 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2016007702
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime trade paperback edition / July 2016
Cover illustration by Larry Rostant.
Cover design by Emily Osborne.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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CONTENTS
PRAISE FOR THE LADY DARBY MYSTERIES
TITLES BY ANNA LEE HUBER
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
HISTORICAL NOTE
For my father,
for showing me that a good man treats women with care and respect, and that actions sometimes speak louder than words.
With love and gratitude.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As always, I have so many people to whom I’m extremely grateful for making this book possible. Much thanks to my fabulous editor, Michelle Vega, and all of the team at the Berkley Publishing Group for their extraordinary expertise. To my agent, Kevan Lyon, for providing guidance and support. To my cousin, Jackie Musser, and my friend Stacie Miller for their camaraderie and impeccable critiques. To all those who assisted in my research, including the talented Hazel Gaynor and the archivists at the Institute of the Blessed Virgin Mary and Irish Province of the Loreto Sisters Archives.
Much thanks to all of my author friends who encourage and bolster me in innumerable ways, especially Marci Jefferson and Rebecca Henderson Palmer (who helped me find my way out of a very sticky plotting situation), and my fellow Sleuths in Time Authors. To my amazing readers who have reached out to ask me questions and tell me how much they enjoy the Lady Darby books. None of this would be possible without you. I would also like to give a special shout-out to reader Angie Baugh, who won the right to name a character in this book last year during my online release party for A Study in Death. Homer turned out to be a perfect addition to the cast.
I also want to express my appreciation for my many family members and friends for all of their care and support, particularly my parents, who do so much for me. Boundless love and thankfulness to my husband and daughter. You are my heart. And immeasurable gratitude to God for all of His many blessings.
CHAPTER ONE
For my soul is full of troubles: and my life
draweth nigh unto the grave.
—PSALM 88:3, BIBLE, KING JAMES VERSION
JULY 1831
KESWICK, ENGLAND
It began with a letter. Or perhaps, more accurately, a messenger. Though I suppose it’s pointless to quibble over such a triviality.
My new husband, Sebastian Gage, and I had been enjoying a delightful picnic at the top of a hill overlooking Derwentwater in the thick of the Lake District of Cumberland. Our mutual friend, Lord Keswick, had offered us the use of
his home, Brandelhow Manor, for our wedding trip while he and his family were in London for the season, and we had happily accepted. After a rather tumultuous ten months, filled with murderous inquiries, an uneasy courtship, my sister’s difficult childbirth, our rushed marriage, and the grim court trial from a recent investigation, we had both longed to escape the clamor and bustle of daily life for a time.
Fortunately, the Lake District was everything we’d hoped. Relative privacy, breathtaking scenery, and plenty of room to ramble whenever we needed fresh air. After more than four blissful weeks of such idyllic contentment, I was thoroughly enchanted with both my new husband and this northwest corner of England.
Having filled our stomachs with smoked mackerel, quark cheese spread on crispy bread, and luscious little strawberry tarts, we reclined in the dappled sunshine beneath the branches of the ash tree at Gage’s back.
“Do you think we could convince Lord Keswick to sell us his estate?” I murmured with a drowsy sigh.
He glanced fondly down at me, where my head rested against his shoulder. The wind rustled the leaves above and ruffled through the golden curls resting against his forehead. His hair had grown a bit overlong since our wedding two and a half months prior, but I didn’t mind. “I think it’s likely entailed. And I wager he would sooner see us disappointed than sell his young son’s inheritance.” His gaze strayed back toward the view unfolding before us. “But you’re right, Kiera. It is lovely.”
I smiled. “Darling, I think the word ‘lovely’ is rather a profound understatement.”
Below the grassy slope on which we lounged, the shimmering blue expanse of Derwentwater rippled with life. Tiny skiffs with bright white sails darted across its surface, most having departed from Keswick village to our right and aimed for one of the small islands dotting the lake’s center, or the lush green hills and spectacular fells of the far shore. The round, slightly curved heights of Catbells arched over the other fells like a crooked finger, as if to nudge the downy clouds chasing each other across the brilliant sky. From our vantage, we could watch their shadows racing over the landscape below, from the scorched celadon of the exposed bluffs, down through the green forest of trees, and across the rich canvas of blues which made up the water of the lake. The air was pungent with life—with earth, and moss, and sunbaked skin—yet softened by the swirling breeze.
This was the first opportunity I’d had to visit the Lake District of Cumberland, but I vowed it would not be the last. I well understood Lord Keswick’s attachment to the place. The scenery was breathtaking. I couldn’t recall seeing colors so vivid. The depths of the blues and greens were so rich and intense that I could not even begin to guess how to re-create them. It was impossible. Though the artist in me had been determined to try.
Landscapes had never been of particular interest to me, nor were they my forte. My gift was for portraiture. But in light of the views surrounding Brandelhow, I had been determined to make the effort, with mixed results. My attempt had been mediocre at best, but I would always cherish the painting simply for the memories it evoked. Particularly the smudges in the bottom right corner which attested to Gage’s powers of persuasion and the tight confines of my makeshift studio.
“Oh, then what word would you have me use? Stunning? Exquisite?” Amusement shone in his eyes. “I’m not exactly Wordsworth.”
“And well I know it,” I teased back.
A shout of laughter escaped him, rumbling up from his chest. I lifted my head to look up at him just as he lifted his hand to cradle my jaw.
“You minx.”
His voice was warm with affection, and I tilted my face upward for his kiss.
Which was when we heard the sounds of a galloping horse approaching. His eyes strayed over my shoulder, and I turned to watch as the rider of a bay stallion rounded the bend in the dusty path at the base of the hill. Upon catching sight of us, he reined in his horse, bringing the steed to an almost sudden stop. Anderley, Gage’s dark-haired valet, stood from his seat halfway down the slope of the hill next to a Brandelhow footman to intercept the man before he could charge up the hill. He’d vaulted from his horse as if to do just that.
“Who is it?”
Gage sat up straighter. “A messenger of some kind.”
We watched as the rider conferred with Anderley and then somewhat reluctantly passed him something. The valet spoke to him again and then swiveled to begin climbing the hill toward us.
“With a letter,” I guessed, seeing the folded square in Anderley’s hands. “But from whom?”
I considered all the natural possibilities—family, close friends—but there was really no way to know until we read it. My stomach tightened with apprehension. One thing was for certain. Whoever had sent it had been anxious for us to receive it. Even from the top of the slope I could see that the horse was winded and glistening with sweat from a hard ride.
“I’m not expecting anything,” Gage said. “At least, not delivered like this. Though I suppose it’s always possible . . .”
I glanced at him as he fell silent, trying to understand what he’d been about to say. His mouth flattened and his face grew taut, erasing the carefree expression of a moment ago. I eyed the missive Anderley carried with misgiving, somehow knowing, whatever the contents, our honeymoon was at an end.
“An urgent message from London, sir,” Anderley told his employer as he passed him the letter.
I blinked in surprise, briefly meeting the valet’s gaze as he turned to move a short distance away to give us privacy while Gage read the missive. The same tightly controlled expression ruled his face.
Gage flipped the missive over in his hand as he sat forward and braced himself by wrapping an elbow around the knee of one of his long legs encased in buff riding pantaloons and dark leather Hessians. He hesitated a second, as if recognizing the same thing I had, before finally breaking the seal and unfolding it.
I tried not to stare at him while he read, reaching for my glass of lemonade. It had grown tepid in the sunshine, and my mouth puckered at the sour warmth. However, it was impossible to ignore him completely. So I pretended to observe the progress of a small boat as it glided across Derwentwater toward the tall, dark pines studding the expanse of one island, while out of the corner of my eye I studied him.
It was clear almost from the start that the contents of the letter were not altogether welcome or unexpected. In fact, he seemed to review the words with a resigned acceptance coupled with intense irritation. He gazed at the bottom of the page for a moment after he’d finished before lowering it with an aggrieved sigh that was also part grunt. “It’s from my father.”
My eyebrows shot skyward. As far as I knew, Gage had not heard from his father since our wedding. Lord Gage had returned to London almost immediately following the ceremony, which he had attended only under threat. The haughty war hero had not been pleased by his son’s choice for a bride, having already selected a charming and politically advantaged debutante for him. Knowing he believed me to be a shameless, scandalous women, and that Gage would be hurt by his father’s failure to attend our wedding, I elected to use my unfairly earned reputation to my advantage, threatening to forbid Lord Gage access to any future grandchildren if he did not appear. A bluff that turned out to be effective as he’d thought me heavy with his first grandchild at the time since Gage and I had pushed forward our wedding date.
I had not told Gage about my gambit, and I assumed neither had his father, but I had to wonder for a moment whether the jig was now over. My eyes strayed toward the hasty scrawl on the foolscap. “What does he say?”
“He wants us to investigate something.”
My spine stiffened. This was a surprise. At least, to me. After the amount of trouble he’d given us during our last murder inquiry, and the number of derogatory comments he’d made about both of our investigative skills, I had never expected him to request his son’s assistanc
e with an inquiry ever again. But to apply to us both . . .
“Both of us? He actually said that?”
His pale blue eyes focused on me. “Yes. But here. You can see for yourself.”
I took the letter from him gingerly, a bit hesitant to read Lord Gage’s acerbic commentary.
Sebastian,
I trust this letter finds you well and adequately rested. I need you to go to Ireland posthaste, to the village of Rathfarnham, south of Dublin. A Miss Harriet Lennox, now a nun at the Loretto Abbey there, has gotten herself murdered. The matter is of some importance to His Grace, the Duke of Wellington, seeing as the chit is his distant cousin. We cannot allow the murder of his relative, foolish and disgraceful papist though she may be, to go unchecked.
Obviously the matter is delicate, and of some urgency, otherwise I would have handled it myself. As you are already hundreds of miles closer, I recommended to His Grace that you should be sent in my stead. I also suggested that your wife might be of some assistance, as she is of the same irrational sex as these nuns, and certainly not above pressing them should the inquiry require it.
I shall expect word from you upon your arrival, and upon the discovery of any crucial piece of information.
The letter went on to inform Gage of the accommodations his father had arranged for us with an acquaintance who owned a cottage in the same village as the abbey, but such details were of little import at the moment. As were the two letters of introduction included inside from the duke, one addressed to the Reverend Mother Mary Teresa Ball; the other to a Sir John Harvey, Inspector-General, and others to Whom It May Concern.
I narrowed my eyes. “The same irrational sex?”
“The letter is from my father. What did you expect?”
“A bit more courtesy. He does realize he’s summoning us from our honeymoon, does he not?”
Gage draped his arm over his raised knee, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbow exposing his forearms, which were now bronzed by the sun, and chuckled mirthlessly. “Oh, I’m certain of it. I’m sure this timely interruption was just a perquisite.”