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    Murder At Montford Hall: A Juliette Abbott Regency Mystery, #7
    Murder At Montford Hall: A Juliette Abbott Regency Mystery, #7
    Murder At Montford Hall: A Juliette Abbott Regency Mystery, #7
    Ebook324 pages7 hours

    Murder At Montford Hall: A Juliette Abbott Regency Mystery, #7

    By Marilyn Clay

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    About this ebook

    MURDER AT MONTFORD HALL is Book 7 in Marilyn Clay's Juliette Abbott Regency-set Mystery Series.

    A pair of mysteries collide in this intricately-plotted tale set against the glamourous backdrop of the London theater world in the 1820s. What can possibly go wrong when a group of former actors and actresses, all of whom once appeared to great acclaim on the London stage, are invited for a winter house party at the country home of Lord and Lady Montford? How about the vicious murder of one of their group on her way to Montford Hall, the poor lady found dead in her carriage before she even arrives at the house party?

     

    Will a blinding snowstorm dictating that no one can leave the mansion, or the fact that the coal supply in the house is fast diminishing and the larder is nearly bare of food serve to lower the houseguests' spirits? Will finding another guest brutally murdered on the premises frighten the guests? Or cause them to believe that they are now stranded in the snowy countryside with a killer in their midst? How soon before the frightened guests begin to point fingers at one another?

     

    When Miss Abbott, who is not an actress and therefore not one of them, is spotted standing over the dead body of one of the gentlemen guests, the murder weapon in hand, how quickly will Miss Abbott be declared the guilty party? And, how quickly will our clever young sleuth manage to run the real killer to ground and prove not only her own innocence, but also that of her maid Tilda, upon whose head suspicion has also fallen?

     

    "The twists and turns in Marilyn Clay's newest Juliette Abbott Regency Mystery will keep readers turning pages!" -- Red River Mystery Reviews"

     

    "I feel as if I'm watching a movie when I read a novel by this author, her descriptions and the action she describes are so very life-like and colourful! Great fun, indeed!" --J S Johnson, 5-Star Reader Review

     

    "A page-turner! You won't want to miss this latest story in Marilyn Clay's popular Juliette Abbott Regency Mystery Series. Miss Abbott continues to be a quick-thinking, clever sleuth who out-wits even the most ruthless killers!" --Marcy Keller, 5-Star Reader Review

     

    MURDER AT MONTFORD HALL is Book 7 in the Juliette Abbott Regency Mystery series. Begin with Book 1 MURDER AT MORLAND MANOR, and continue through MURDER IN MAYFAIR, MURDER IN MARGATE, MURDER AT MEDLEY PARK, MURDER IN MIDDLEWYCH, MURDER IN MAIDSTONE, MURDER IN MARTINDALE, and the newest, MURDER AT MARLEY CHASE, every title in this delightful series penned by best-selling author Marilyn Clay continues to please! watch for MURDER IN THE MERRYTON MEWS, coming in late 2024.

     

    Look for all of Marilyn Clay's Historical Suspense novels available from major online retailers in both print, ebook and audio!

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMarilyn Clay
    Release dateJan 21, 2020
    ISBN9781393360469
    Murder At Montford Hall: A Juliette Abbott Regency Mystery, #7

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      Book preview

      Murder At Montford Hall - Marilyn Clay

      ALSO BY MARILYN CLAY

      FICTION 

      The Juliette Abbott Regency Mystery Series . . .

      Murder At Montford Hall

      Murder In Maidstone

      Murder In Middlewych

      Murder At Medley Park

      Murder In Margate

      Murder In Mayfair

      Murder At Morland Manor

      Historical Suspense Novels . . .

      Betsy Ross: Accidental Spy

      Deceptions – (First printing in hardcover; Reprinted in

      paperback and ebook as Dangerous Deceptions and The Letter)

      Secrets And Lies – (First printing in hardcover;

      Reprinted in paperback and ebook as Dangerous Secrets and

      A Petticoat And Lambskin Gloves)

      Regency Romance Novels . . . 

      Bewitching Lord Winterton

      Brighton Beauty (reprinted as A Pretty Puzzle)

      Miss Eliza’s Gentleman Caller

      Felicity’s Folly

      Miss Darby’s Debut (reprinted as The Uppity Earl)

      The Unsuitable Suitor

      The Wrong Miss Fairfax

      Contemporary Mystery . . .

      Stalking A Killer: An Amanda Mason Mystery

      NON-FICTION 

      18th & 19th Century English Women At Sea

      History of The Water Closet

      Regency Period Furniture, Vol. 1

      Regency Period Furniture, Vol. 2 – Baubles & Necessities

      Regency Period Furniture, Vol. 3 – Gentlemanly Concerns

      You Are Never Alone: Gentle Reminders To Help Us Remember Who We Are

      HUMOROUS CAT STORIES  

      (Fictional although based on truth)

      Sailor’s New Bed

      Daisy Grows Up: A Kitten Baby Book

      MURDER AT MONTFORD HALL

      Book Seven of the Juliette Abbott Regency Mystery Series

      A Regency Plume Press Publication

      Copyright © January 2020 by Marilyn Jean Clay

      All Rights Reserved.

      This book is protected by the copyright laws of the United States of America and other countries. No portion of this book may be reproduced, digitized, taped, recorded, scanned, or reprinted in whole or in part by either photocopying, printing, faxing, E-mailing, or copying electronically for the purpose of distributing on the web, or electronically transmitting to be given away; nor can it be stored in any sort of online retrieval system

      in use today or by methods yet to be invented,

      without written permission from the author, Marilyn Jean Clay.

      MURDER AT MONTFORD HALL, Book Seven of the Juliette Abbott Regency Mystery Series is a work of fiction. The story is based solely upon the author’s imagination. Any true-to-life actor’s names, or names of London theatres from the 18th and

      19th centuries in England are used fictitiously.

      Dear Readers: Please do not contribute to the online piracy of copyrighted material. To do so is stealing and is a crime punishable by laws designed to protect an author’s hard work.

      This author, and other authors, appreciate and thank you for your honesty and cooperation.

      Printed and published in the United States of America

      ISBN-13: 978-1653776733

      The Palace Theatre, London, circa early 1800s

      Facts About London Theatres During The Regency Period . . .

      I HAVE CHOSEN TO PLACE my Historical Notes at the beginning of this book rather than the end in an effort to help readers fully understand some of the remarks and references made by the fictional characters who appear in my story.

      The following is a short glossary of Regency-period theatre terms.

      PATENT THEATRES were playhouses approved by the king, meaning they could thereafter be designated as a Theatre Royal. Playhouses without a patent were prevented from producing serious drama. To comply and also to avoid fines, closure, or prosecution, non-patent theatres included songs and dances in their dramatic productions, including Shakespearian plays!

      In 1803, the patent theatre COVENT GARDENS was the theatrical home of the famed actor John Philip Kemble and his sister, the famous actress, Sarah Siddons. The well-known clown Joseph Grimaldi also performed at Covent Gardens. In 1806, Grimaldi created a sensation when he appeared in the popular pantomime Mother Goose.

      The London patent theatre HAYMARKET was mainly a summer playhouse open from May to early autumn. Another London patent theatre, DRURY LANE, located between Bridges and Russell Streets, burned to the ground in February 1809; was rebuilt and reopened in October 1812. In 1814, Drury Lane was again remodeled with the popular poet Lord Byron on the management board. Drury Lane’s most famous manager was the playwright Richard Sheridan, and Dorothy Jordan its most sensational actress at the time.

      Non-patent theaters of this period were the PANTHEON located in Oxford Street. Permanently closed in 1814, it reopened a decade later as a shopping bazaar. The REGENCY Theater, named in 1811 in honor of the Prince becoming Regent, was in Tottenham Street and was formerly a riding academy. In 1816, the ROYALTY was renamed the East London Theatre.

      TOKENS – were used in place of tickets, which at the time did not exist. Theatre-goers purchased special round or oval-shaped tokens made from bone, ivory or even silver. Tokens were purchased for the duration of one or two seasons. Since theatre seats were not yet numbered, a patron’s name and the number of his personal theatre box might also be engraved upon his token.

      THEATRE LIGHTS – consisted of lit candles placed in hanging chandeliers that were suspended over the heads of the audience. Because the candles could not be dimmed during a performance, it was not uncommon for a dribble of hot wax to drop down upon a theater goer’s head or arms causing the patron to cry out, or shriek in pain. The stage was lit by oil lamps hanging in the wings with smaller lamps placed along the outer rim of the stage. Since the auditorium was constantly lit, patrons could easily observe one another as well as the performers. Patrons often talked back, or called out, to performers on stage, or to patrons seated in the pit on backless, unpadded benches.

      SECOND SEATING – A stream of patrons were let into the theatre often upon the conclusion of the first act, which is when the price of admission was reduced. To avoid paying full price, many less affluent patrons waited outdoors until the price of admission dropped, often by half.

      THE HEAVENS – that area of the theatre also known as the Gallery. Located high above the boxes, the auditorium, and the pit (ground level), the gallery is where the lower orders, the common folk, or servants of the rich sat.

      ORANGE GIRLS – were young peasant girls who sold oranges to patrons. It was said that Nell Gywn, a famous actress who later became the mistress of King Charles II, began her career in the theatre as an orange girl.

      PLAYBILLS – were posted in nearby inn and coffee house windows. Orange sellers might also sell them in place of a program before a play began.

      COSTUMES – Despite a well-established theatre’s stock wardrobe, players were expected to provide their own costumes, although leading thespians were often given a special stipend to be used for that purpose.

      AFTERPIECE – following a serious drama, or a double bill of plays, a light farce or pantomime called the ‘afterpiece’ was staged. A full ballet was generally performed following an opera. Given the length of plays and operas at the time, a night at the theatre truly meant a full night spent at the theatre!

      Primary Players appearing in MURDER AT MONTFORD HALL:

      Juliette Abbott – A nine and ten-year-old young lady invited to a house party at Montford Hall hosted by a theatre friend of her late mother Minette Dubois (dec).

      Lord and Lady Montford – Benefactors of patent London Theatres who have more than once hosted house parties at their country estate for former thespians, although their reasons for doing so remain unknown . . . until now.

      Ardeth Myers, Lady Westcott – Once a great beauty of the stage who captured the heart of the wealthy Earl of Westcott (dec). The marriage allowed her to escape the plight that befalls many a lovely young actress whose looks take flight.

      Carlotta Marydale & Emma Stevens – Also once popular actresses who graced the boards of London and Paris theatres. Each now struggles to survive in a harsh world where one needs wealth, looks, or a husband, to properly get on.

      Miles Lyttleton, Anthony Torbitt, Robert Nordstrom – Former beloved stage actors; neither one particularly trustworthy, at least when it comes to the ladies. Each man carries secrets that may or may not come to light. Hmmm.

      Henry Egerton – A well-known London playwright who relishes hearing of scandalous secrets about theatre folk, which he then puts to good use as plot devices in the plays he pens. A handsome man with snow-white hair.

      Helen Proctor – A house party guest. Helen’s late mother was also an actress.

      Tilda – The six-and-ten year old girl who serves as Miss Abbott’s lady’s maid. Tilda has ambivalent feelings towards the theatre and actors in general. Her fervent desire at present is simply to escape Montford Hall alive! Oh, my.

      Chapter 1 / An Ill-Wind Bloweth . . .

      LONDON, ENGLAND . . . Early January 1822 

      If ye’ wonts my opinion, I think ye’ should go, Mrs. Gant, my elderly housekeeper said, her tone kindly but firm.

      Mrs. G has served as my housekeeper here at my lovely home in Brook Street going on a full twelvemonth now; although we have known one another since I was a child when we both resided with Lady Carstairs, I as that lady’s companion, and Mrs. Gant as Lady Carstairs’ housekeeper. Following her ladyship’s sudden demise, and after an alarming interlude that I now think of as a murder in Mayfair, Mrs. Gant became my housekeeper and her husband, Mr. Gant, my butler. The three of us now rub along nicely together in my beautiful town home in London’s most fashionable neighborhood, Mayfair. A place where I never ever thought I would be fortunate enough to reside.

      After all ye’s suffered on them last two assignments for Mr. Phelps, I daresay no one will fault ye’ for takin’ a rest from yer labours. Ye’ deserves a proper holiday, ye’ do, she added, nodding for emphasis.

      A sigh escaped me. I expect you are right, Mrs. Gant, I replied, my eyes fixed upon the lilac-scented note in my hand which Mrs. G had just delivered to me here in my cozy sitting room above stairs.

      The post had arrived a bit late this cold January morning and Mrs. Gant had hurriedly brought up the sealed missive to me where I sat alone before the fire, my wrapper drawn snugly about me as I sipped a second cup of tea. Of course, I had entertained hopes that my housekeeper was bringing up correspondence from my dear friend, Mr. Sheridan.

      If you recall, upon returning from Maidstone a few months ago, I was confined to a wheeled Bath chair. It was a full fortnight before I could manage the stairs on my own. Dear Mr. Sheridan had popped round to check on me several times before Christmastide set in, and I have no doubt that he would have continued to do so throughout the festive season had he not been dispatched by the Home Office, for whom he is employed, to travel to the continent to apprehend an unknown madman who had made a brazen attempt upon the life of the king and vowed that his next attempt to assassinate his majesty would prove successful. Knowing Mr. Sheridan as I do, I daresay the would-be assassin would not live long enough to launch a second attempt.

      My thoughts strayed to the last occasion in which Mr. Sheridan had called upon me since Tilda and I returned home from Maidstone. Tilda, my young lady’s maid was presently elsewhere within my three-storey town home, no doubt seeing to Little Georgie, my adorable black and white kitten who was growing up quite rapidly and when he was awake, demanded attention from anyone within earshot of his meows. One never knew when a streak of black and white fluff would fly into a room and unceremoniously hop onto one’s lap for a quick cuddle. It typically only took a few caresses upon his silky backside to satisfy the little mite, then off he’d go again, tearing through the house chasing imaginary foes that only he could see. I was glad Tilda did not mind keeping up with the lively kitten as his antics very often wore me to a frazzle.

      I smiled to myself now as I pulled my thoughts back around to the note in my hand, which, unfortunately, was not from Mr. Sheridan. To say truth, I do not believe in my nine-and-ten years of life that I had ever met the sender, a Lady Montford, who claims that she was once a dear friend of my late mother, the former Minette Dubois, which is the name my mother took whilst performing on the stage both here in London and also in Paris. That, of course, was long before she and my father met and married and a good long while before I came along. In the note, Lady Montford declared that she, too, had been an actress, and was acquainted with my mother.

      With a sigh, I realized I could scarcely remember my mother or my father. They both passed away when I was a child. Left an orphan, I had resided for a time with my Aunt Jane and Uncle Abbott on their farm in the country, until of a sudden I was packed off to London to serve as companion to the society matron, Lady Carstairs. Quite against my will at the time, I nonetheless resided a number of years in Lady Carstairs’ lovely town home here in London, and in the end felt quite fortunate for having done so, as those pleasant years spent with her ladyship proved a blessing to me. That dear lady saw to my education and instilled in me a desire to better myself. I shall remain forever grateful for her gentle instruction in how a young lady should go on in Polite Society; and also that I was granted full access to the wonderful library in Lady Carstairs’ home.

      Another sigh escaped me as, once again, my gaze fixed upon the note in my hand. Interest stirred within me as I began to actually consider the invitation extended by this unknown Lady Montford. A relaxing holiday in the country might be just the thing to chase away the doldrums that had of late beset me. Both of my recent assignments from Mr. Phelps of the New Bond Street Auction House here in London where I served as one of Mr. Phelps’ assistants, had contained far more anxiety and outright danger than either of us could have foreseen. Why, I very nearly lost my life at both Medley Park and Maidstone, and Middlewych inbetween! No doubt, I would not have escaped alive without the heroic intervention of my dear friend Mr. Sheridan, the alarmingly handsome, and oh-so-kind, gentleman whom I now held in the highest regard.

      Dear, dear, Mr. Sheridan. Although I knew that he was now engaged in very important work for the Crown, I sorely missed the handsome man. When my birthday rolled around a fortnight ago, he had thoughtfully brought me a lovely tin of chocolate truffles, and a smaller one for Tilda, who celebrated her birthday a mere two days beyond mine.

      Even Mrs. G had fallen victim to Mr. Sheridan’s charms. But, what feminine heart would not? Since he’d been gone, I had had to push against thoughts of jealousy when I considered all the pretty Parisian misses who would, no doubt, cast coy looks his way. Errant tears often trickled down my cheeks as I lay in bed at night wondering when, or if, I might ever see my gentleman friend again. Thus far, I’d not had so much as a hastily scribbled note from him, and as the long winter days dragged on, that fact alone caused my spirits to sink lower and lower.

      Suddenly, I declared, I shall do it, Mrs. G! I shall accept Lady Montford’s invitation to attend her house party. Tilda and I shall both go!

      To be sure ye’ll have a fine time, miss. I doubt ye’ll neither one regret havin’ somethin’ divertin’ to do these dreary winter days!

      That Tilda or I might come to regret my decision to pass a pleasant fortnight in the company of my late mother’s theatrical friends did not once cross my mind. However, as I look back now, I realize that . . . perhaps, it should have. After all, I hadn’t the least notion why, after nearly two decades, this unknown patron of the arts suddenly wished to see me?

      A SEN’NIGHT LATER . . . January 1822

      Large flakes of fluffy white snow had begun to fall and cling to the cobblestones outside my doorstep minutes before a shiny black carriage, a gold crest on the side door panel, arrived to collect Tilda and me to carry us off to Montford Hall, a short jaunt from Town, or so we were told.

      Already seated within the closed vehicle were two older ladies and a distinguished looking gentleman with thick graying hair who gallantly stepped to the ground, and after sweeping a low bow (a rather theatrical gesture, thought I), declared his name to be Miles Lyttleton, a name with which I confess to being unfamiliar. Since my mother’s passing, I had not stayed abreast of the monikers of past, or even present, theatrical personages. Whilst my mother was alive, I was far too young to take note of her friends or to remember their names. Today, I scarcely cared.

      After Mr. Lyttleton had assisted both Tilda and me into the carriage, he presented to us the ladies already seated within, both of whom he said were actresses. One of them, Miss Carlotta Marydale, was busily knitting something blue in color and did not look up from her work. Due to both ladies’ graying hair and wrinkled countenances, I assumed they neither one appeared upon any stage today; they looked far too elderly, to me. After murmured greetings were exchanged, Tilda and I settled on the bench across from the ladies, me alongside Mr. Lyttleton. I idly thought it fortunate the coach was spacious enough to accommodate five adults, two of which (the pair of women seated opposite) were almost as large as three slender ones might have been if they were each wearing less bulky clothing and carrying far less weight beneath said garments.

      Miss Marydale, who looked to be about forty or above and whose smile was, indeed, pleasant, addressed me, (without taking her eyes off her clicking knitting needles). "Your dear mother, Minette, and I once played sisters on the Paris stage, Miss Abbott. Goodness, (she did cast a quick glance upward) you are the image of her. You have her smile and her green eyes, but I expect you are aware of your resemblance to your mum."

      Smiling, I felt my cheeks colour. My mother passed away so very long ago, I confess I can scarcely recall her features. You are the first person I have encountered who actually knew her when she was performing upon the stage.

      Oh, my. Miss Marydale aimed a glance at her portly companion, Miss Emma Stevens. She looks exactly like Minette, does she not, Em?

      It was Mr. Lyttleton, whose penetrating gaze I had felt assessing me, who replied. Your mother was, indeed, a great beauty, Miss Abbott. Many a gentlemanly heart was lost beneath the spell of her sea-green eyes. I daresay the same holds true for you. Your mother took Paris by storm the season she played Juliette to my Romeo on the Palladium stage.

      I brightened as I turned toward him and exclaimed, My given name is Julietta, although the English insist on pronouncing it Juliette. 

      Clearly your mother named you after the first theatrical character she played, declared Miss Marydale.

      The role that made her a star, pensively added Miss Stevens. She seemed pleasant enough, although with thinning brown hair streaked with gray and cheeks that now displayed a multitude of wrinkles, I thought it possible that Miss Stevens might have never been known as a great beauty.

      Openly assessing the ladies, it occurred to me that apparently in an effort to stave off the negative effects of the passing years both aging actresses now thought it necessary to paint their faces, although the rosy smudges on their cheeks could have merely been brought on by the cool air within the carriage, it now skimming over wet cobbles toward the toll road that would take us from the city. Still, I wager the rouge pot had darkened their rosy lips. Smudges of smoky black kohl also outlined their eyes. Had I not known them to be actresses, I might have taken them for . . . ladies of the night. A bit ashamed by the direction my own thoughts were taking, I looked down. I truly should refrain from judging others, I told myself.

      Glancing back up, it also became evident that the former actresses’ clothing was no longer the height of fashion. The woolen muffler wound about Miss Stevens’s neck displayed frayed edges and Miss Marydale’s faded blue pelisse had clearly been laundered one too many times. I decided the new blue woolen muffler she was knitting might be her way of brightening up her aged clothing.

      I idly wondered how the years might have affected my beautiful mother, and my handsome father, were they still alive. Suddenly I realized that even if one of them were still living, my life would now be quite different from what it has become. Truth was, I felt quite fortunate that things had turned out as they had for me. Apart from my lovely home in Mayfair, I now possess a wardrobe bulging with fashionable garments, most of them newly acquired. I was even now proudly wearing my splendid green velvet pelisse trimmed in spotted white ermine. Even the warm blue coat Tilda wore, a cast-off of mine, was more fashionable than those worn by the aging actresses.

      On the other hand, Mr. Lyttleton looked quite smart in a chocolate brown great coat, the long skirt draped about his legs for warmth. He wore smooth brown leather gloves, and a shiny walking stick rested at his side. His handsome looks caused me to wonder if he might still be appearing upon the stage. For an older gentleman, Mr. Lyttleton was . . . quite nice-looking; although it was his deep baritone voice that one could truly not help but notice. No doubt, with that full-bodied timbre, he had no trouble being heard in every box of the most spacious theatre in London.

      As the three thespians fell to discussing who else amongst their many stage acquaintances might have been invited to Lady Montford’s house party, I cast a gaze past Tilda from the coach window and wondered what my father’s voice might have sounded like, and if the treble and tone of my voice also put one in mind of my mother? There was no way of knowing the answers to my questions, of course, but it did please me to hear that my eyes and smile resembled those of my beautiful mother.

      As the hours slowly passed and the snow began to fall thicker and faster, it became apparent that the inclement weather, now causing our carriage to very nearly creep along, was turning our short jaunt into nearly a day-long journey. Although we did meet up with two or three other intrepid travelers astride horses on the road, their mounts trudging slowly along, plus one shabbily dressed farmer dwarfing a donkey upon which he sat, the man’s legs hanging almost to the ground as the poor animal sludged through snow that covered its fetlocks, there were precious few other humans braving the storm on this bitterly cold winter’s day.

      Miss Emma Stevens declared her belief that a full-blown blizzard was in the making. Although Tilda and I said nothing, both ladies anxiously expressed trepidation as to what might occur should our carriage become hopelessly bogged down in a heavy snowdrift.

      Beside me, Mr. Lyttleton made an effort to lighten our fears by remarking that he had visited Lord and Lady Montford’s country home upon a previous occasion and that if we did not arrive soon, his lordship would surely send someone to search for and fetch us, should we require rescuing.

      Fear not, ladies. We will very soon abandon the road leading to Basingstoke and embark upon a winding trail that will take us straight up to Montford Hall. We are close on there now.

      Miss Marydale said, Do you not think it odd that we have not encountered another carriage also on the way to Montford Hall?

      Perhaps we are the last guests to arrive, offered Emma Stevens, aiming a gaze beyond her companion in an effort to better see from one of the now quite frosty windows encasing us in our chilly environs.

      Miss Stevens attempted to boldly reach across to the window at Tilda’s side to rub a clear spot on the glass in order to better view the snowy countryside our coach was slogging through and had been since we paused at a roadside inn above an hour ago for a bite of luncheon. Do you think it possible our driver has missed the turn, Mr. Lyttleton?

      Indeed, not, ladies. Fear not, we are right on track, he said again.

      I, who had no inkling where we were headed or how long it should take us to get there, said nothing, although Tilda and I had both begun to exchange anxious gazes with one another.

      I hope we have not become lost, Tilda finally said. The snowflakes seem to be fallin’ a good deal faster the further we get from Town. Her wide eyes fretfully studied the blanket of thick white snow now extending as far as one could see in any direction.

      The wintry weather has, indeed, worsened, I agreed, also leaning to look past Tilda from the frosty window

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