Murder by multiples a me.., p.1
Murder By Multiples (A Meredith and Alec Thatch Mystery Book 1), page 1
Murder By Multiples
A Meredith and Alec Thatch Mystery, Book 1
By Rachel Ford
Chapter One
The Lancaster motorcar stopped outside Fern House just after ten in the morning. Alice Thatch – Alec, to most of the world – had been in the gardens, tending the roses. Mrs. Thatch’s personal favorite but lifelong nemesis.
At the sound of the vehicle, however, she stood, brushing off her trousers as best as she could, and emerged to greet it.
Or more accurately, its passenger. “Merry” Meredith Thatch, nee Lancaster, Alice’s wife. Or, as the village knew them, Alec’s wife.
The motorcar halted, and a middle-aged chauffeur stepped out to open the rear door. A moment later, a tallish woman in her mid-thirties, with pale skin, dark hair and red lips stepped out.
Alec had thought she looked a bit like a real-life Snow White when they first met, some fifteen years ago, when Alice’s father had taken a job in the Lancaster stables. The girls had been teenagers then.
To young Alice, Meredith looked like she’d stepped right out of the pages of a fairy story. A decade and a half later, the impression still held. A fairytale princess, returning to their own happily ever after.
Merry produced a dazzling smile and a bundle of parcels from the backseat. Alec accepted both. “Welcome back, my dear. How was London?”
“Exhausting,” Merry replied. “Come on, I’ll tell you all about it.” Then, turning to the driver, she said, “Thank you, Higgins.”
“I’ll take the car back to the big house then, Miss?” A grizzled man of old-world sensibilities, Higgins had never quite accepted the marriage of the lady of the manor to the offspring of a member of the staff. So Merry had remained, and likely would forever be, ‘Miss’ in his mind.
“Yes, please. And we’ll need it again tomorrow, remember.”
“Righto. Have a good day, Miss.”
The automobile pulled away, leaving them alone again. “I don’t know why we don’t just convert that shed,” Alec grumbled. “We could garage the car here. And you know how much I like to drive it.”
“I know,” Merry said. “But then what would Higgins do?”
Alec snorted, as if that was Higgins’ problem and not theirs, but didn’t press. They’d had this conversation before, and Merry could be nothing if not stubborn.
Which, of course, was one of her better qualities. Merry’s stubbornness was the reason they were here at Fern House at all. Together.
“Well,” she said, “tell me about London.”
Merry twined an arm through her wife’s, disregarding the garden dirt and vegetation that clung to the fabric of her shirt. “Over a cup of tea. Tell me about your week.”
“Not much to tell,” Alec said truthfully. “You know how it is this time of year – quiet.”
“Time of year?” Merry asked. “When is Fenwood-on-Sea ever anything but quiet?”
Alec grinned. “Well, there was the great egg theft of 1919.”
“True,” Merry lamented, “though I doubt we’ll ever see that much excitement again.”
“No,” Alec agreed. The two-week string of chickencoop burglaries – burglaries that had never been solved though everyone from the vicar to the constable had their own ideas about who to blame – had caused quite an uproar in the little coastal town. Indeed, it could still provoke heated discussion among locals who felt justice had not been served. “I guess not. Although, we did have a vicious rooster. That’s something, I guess.”
Merry got the door, laughing as she entered. “A vicious rooster? Not Mrs. Addleberry’s again.”
“The very one,” Alec confirmed, dropping the parcels just inside. “Chased Gilbert Meadows clear down the road.”
“He’d probably been throwing stones at the chickens again,” Merry said. “That boy has a mean streak, you know.”
“Probably,” Alec agreed, latching the door after them. “Now…” She pulled Merry into her arms and kissed her tenderly.
Merry sighed. “I missed you.”
“I missed you too.”
“You could have come with me, you know.”
Alec thought she detected a hint of reproof in her wife’s voice. This, too, had been a longstanding point of contention between them. But like Merry, she could be stubborn in her own right.
“You know it’s too risky,” she said mildly. “It’s one thing here, where I’m a stranger.”
“A stranger.” Merry scoffed. “You’re no more a stranger than me. And if no one’s figured it out here, I dare say they won’t in London.”
“I was gone for five years,” Alec persisted. “Anyway, they only knew little Alice. Not Alec. There’s people who knew Alice in London, and people who knew Alec. The less time I spend there, the better.”
“Well,” Merry said, pausing to kiss her again, “you know it makes no sense to me.”
“I know,” Alec said. “It’s just – safer this way. Now, let’s get that tea you wanted. And tell me about your trip.”
“Let me just change first,” Merry said. “I won’t be a minute.”
Alec rarely considered her wife to be anything but a woman of her word, but in this particular case, history had taught her not to believe a word of it. She’d be gone at least twenty minutes if she was gone a second.
So Alec headed to the kitchen to put on the kettle and prepare something to eat. Normally, biscuits or perhaps a scone would do. But here too, she knew her wife rather too well.
Long journeys by motorcar always worked up an appetite in Mrs. Thatch. So did train rides, or bicycle rides, for that matter. Something about traveling at all seemed to do it.
Laying out a plate of biscuits and the scones their cook, Mrs. Wentworth, had baked that morning, she put together a stack of finger sandwiches.
Half an hour later, the kettle hot and the food laid out, Merry joined her in the parlor. “Oh,” she sighed at the sight of the food, “you’re a darling. I’m famished. I didn’t have time for breakfast on the way out, you know, and I almost missed my train.”
Alec poured tea while Merry dug in, with a decidedly unladylike gusto. A far cry from the prim and proper Miss Meredith Lancaster of days gone by, she thought with an appreciative smile.
Then, with tea and food in hand, they settled into their respective armchairs. “Well?” Alec prompted. “What did the solicitor have to say?”
Merry took a sip of tea and shrugged. “It was all good news, actually. Now that I’m officially thirty, I’ve come into everything.”
“All of it?”
She nodded. “Yes. No more trustee, no more asking permission when I need to spend money. Now, well, I suppose I can do what I like.”
“And will you?”
“What?”
“Do what you like.”
Merry considered for a moment, and then shrugged. “I suppose I already do that. I mean, we might travel a bit more now, but other than that – really, we do what we like, don’t we?”
Alec nodded. Life had not always been easy. Merry’s father, Major Lancaster, had at one point written her out of his life and will altogether. Of course, that had been before the Great War. Before George, the Lancaster heir, died in the trenches.
Then old Major Lancaster had not so much a change of heart as no other choice if he wished to keep the family property in the family at any rate. He’d reconciled and named Merry his heir.
Even that had come with stipulations, though. He’d put the estate in the hands of his solicitor. Not until she reached majority, not even until her twenty-fifth birthday. He’d chosen her thirtieth as the point at which she could, if she had not disgraced herself, claim her rightful inheritance in full. No caveats.
It might have been an impediment for them. For some couples, she supposed it might even have been the end of them. But not for her and Merry. They were quite content to live simply and quietly, as long as it meant they could live together.
Thirty really didn’t change anything. Maybe they could afford a jobbing gardener to pick up a little of the slack now and then, or get someone in to help with the cleaning more than once a week. But it wouldn’t change much of their day-to-day.
Life would go on exactly as it had done, ever since they’d moved into Fern House.
They spent a little time discussing the particulars – the accounts, investments, and holdings to which she now had access, the solicitors Merry would continue with, and those she would dismiss.
Merry declared she would discuss bringing in more help around the house. “Someone Mrs. Wentworth approves of, of course.”
“Of course,” Alec agreed. In Fern House, if their cook wasn’t happy, no one was happy. Which meant that any additional staff would not only need to be competent and discreet, someone they could trust not to pry, but also someone who could tolerate Mrs. Wentworth’s mercurial moods with good humor.
A saint, or someone with the patience of one, anyway.
“We can ask her sister,” Merry mused. “Mrs. – what is her name? You know, the curate’s widow.”
Alec shook her head. “Mrs. Campbell. But not her. They’re not speaking, remember?”
“Oh, that’s right. After Mrs. Campbell insulted her pies.”
Alec nodded gravely. “Capital offense.”
Then, Alec declared she should return to the gardens. “Mrs. Wentworth is out
“Oh?”
“Don’t look at me. She wouldn’t breathe a word of the menu. Just said you’d love it.”
Merry laughed. “That does sound like her. Dear Mrs. Wentworth.”
Alec snorted. “Dear Mrs. Wentworth. Whose house is this, anyway? You’d think we worked for her.”
“Don’t we?” Merry asked, rising from her seat. “Here, I’ll take care of this, don’t you worry about it.” She gestured to the tea things.
“Are you sure?”
“Of course. You’ve got far more important things to worry about. Like that wretched climbing rose.”
Alec laughed. “Oh, it’s bounced back. Right as rain now.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. Though, I’m not quite sure what you did to it.”
Merry shook her head, her expression far more serious than the topic merited. “No, nor am I. I tell you, I watered it just as you said.”
“Maybe you overwatered it.”
“I didn’t,” Merry protested. “I followed your schedule exactly.”
“Well,” Alec said, kissing her on the forehead, “roses are just not your forte, my dear. You can’t be good at everything, you know.”
“I’m good at killing roses, I know that.” Now, her tone softened, and she squeezed Alec’s arm. “It’s so good to be back, my dearest.”
“And it’s very good to have you back. There aren’t enough roses in Fenwood to keep me distracted.”
Merry smiled and kissed her. “I do love you. So very much.”
Alec pulled her wife to her, and for a moment they stood embracing. Then, she heard a door open. The telltale sign of Mrs. Wentworth’s return.
“I shall leave you to your doting mother hen,” she declared, eyes twinkling. “And see what I can do with the rest of those roses.”
Merry grinned too, but she said, “Just so long as you don’t work too hard. I shall need a proper welcome back later, you know.”
Alec kissed her again. “And you shall have it, my dear.”
Chapter Two
Mrs. Wentworth was in the kitchen unpacking parcels when Merry entered with the tea things. Her broad face, pink with exertion, broke into a wide grin.
“Miss Merry,” she said, “you’re back.”
Unlike Higgins, the address was a form of affection. Merry had never been either a Lancaster or a Thatch to Mrs. Wentworth. She’d always been Miss Merry, from the first time they’d met – Mrs. Wentworth then being young Miss Templeton, and Merry herself but a toddler.
Charity Templeton had doted on the young girl, for reasons Merry never fully understood. By her mother’s account, she’d been sick at their first meeting. It had been an interview. Young Miss Templeton, a bright-eyed woman of eighteen, had come up to the big house to inquire about a vacant position in the household staff.
Merry, cross with fever and weary of her nanny’s rules, had heard commotion downstairs and, waiting for an opportune moment when her minder’s back turned, escaped the nursery. She found her mother and Miss Templeton, alright, but by this time the activity had been too much for her stomach.
Within seconds of racing into the room, she was sick all over the young woman’s frock. Instead of Miss Templeton reviling her for the incident, it seemed to trigger some as of yet untapped maternal instinct. Her genuine concern for the child, despite her own state, convinced Mrs. Lancaster to hire her on the spot.
Not for the position she’d originally interviewed, but as a nursery aid.
That had been over two and a half decades ago, of course. Miss Templeton had left the great house a few years later to marry Mr. James Wentworth, and they’d had half a dozen children, all boys. Only four had survived to adulthood, with childhood diseases taking young masters Roger and Thomas.
Then war had claimed their eldest, Theodore, and the influenza their youngest, Benjamin. Now, Mrs. Templeton had only two boys left of the original six, Frederick and Charles.
Merry didn’t wonder that some of the sparkle had gone out of her eyes. Mrs. Wentworth had suffered more loss than any one person should ever have to bear. And yet for all that, she remained warm and caring.
At least, as long as you didn’t interfere with her kitchen.
To that end, the older woman set her parcels aside and lifted the tray out of Merry’s hands. “I’ll take that. How was your trip, my dear?”
“Exhausting,” Merry admitted. “It’s good to be home.”
“And the news? Was it what you hoped?”
Merry nodded. “It was.”
Mrs. Wentworth beamed again. “Will you be moving back to the big house then?”
“No. Not any time soon.”
“Ah. Well, more’s the pity, though I dare say we’d all miss seeing you day to day. And you’d miss your garden, wouldn’t you? Especially with all the hours Mr. Thatch puts into it.”
Mrs. Wentworth was a woman long accustomed to finding silver linings, and Merry recognized that she was putting that particular skill to use now. She felt a little bad about that, that she couldn’t level with her.
But not even Charity Wentworth could know the truth. So she put on a stoic front, declaring, “I think Alec would have my head if I said we were packing up. Especially after restoring that climbing rose.”
“Well, them that’s good with animals usually have the patience of the saints for plants too,” Mrs. Wentworth declared. “Now, you can tell me all about your trip later. But if I’m to get dinner on in time…”
Merry took her full meaning. She had outstayed her welcome, so with a final farewell, she beat a hasty retreat.
Banished from the kitchen, she decided to head into the village. She could stop by the local grocer, to see if Mrs. Green had any coffee in stock, as they had been running low before she left. And if she knew Alec at all, she’d forgotten to pick up more in the interval. Indeed, she wouldn’t remember until she went to make a cup.
She smiled at the thought. Alec could remember an encyclopedia’s worth of information about plants, but without someone to ensure the house was stocked with food and supplies, Merry suspected she’d starve to death. Probably, in the garden she loved so much.
It wasn’t just coffee that drew her to the village, though. She felt a walk would do her good. She’d spent too long cooped up in trains or the motorcar. Fresh air and open roads.
That was what she needed.
Half an hour later, Merry was in the grocer’s shop, chatting amiably with the woman behind the counter.
Amiably, but cautiously. Mrs. Green was the village gossip, and a notorious troublemaker. She owned one of the few telephones in town, and according to the rumor mill anyway, spent her days when not otherwise occupied with her ear pressed to the receiver.
At the moment, however, she was not on the telephone. She was asking, “So how was London? Not quite so dreary this time of year, I expect.”
Merry confirmed that the city looked very well indeed. “I don’t think I’ve seen it so lively since the war.”
“Well now, that’s to be expected. Things can’t keep on forever, can they? Change comes, whether we want it or not.” Mrs. Green paused for half a moment, and then threw a surreptitious glance her way. “And Mr. Thatch? Did he care for it?”
Merry smiled to herself. So that’s what she was getting at. Mrs. Green would know well enough that Alec hadn’t gone with her, and she’d be drawing her own conclusions.
Not difficult to guess what those might be, either. Her and Alec’s marriage had shocked quiet Fenwood-On-Sea. In some quarters, it had been considered a disgrace for the lady of the manor to marry a son of the help.
If they only knew.
To Mrs. Green, she said, “Oh, Alec couldn’t leave his garden.”
“Of course. I wonder how he managed last year, when you two went to Scotland?” the grocer asked sweetly.
Merry decided to ignore the question, pretending instead to examine a tin of biscuits.
Seeing that she’d get nothing further, Mrs. Green changed tact. “I suppose you heard that young Mr. Jonathan is back in town. Such a nice young man. Not at all like his father.”
“I hadn’t heard,” Merry said. This was true, and though Merry had no particular interest in the Braun’s – either Jonathan or his disagreeable father – it afforded Mrs. Green an opportunity to talk about her neighbors. Which was the greatest kindness anyone could pay the grocer.
