A Dark and Stormy Night Read online

  The Dorothy Martin Mysteries from Jeanne M. Dams

  THE BODY IN THE TRANSEPT

  TROUBLE IN THE TOWN HALL

  HOLY TERROR IN THE HEBRIDES

  MALICE IN MINIATURE

  THE VICTIM IN VICTORIA STATION

  KILLING CASSIDY

  TO PERISH IN PENZANCE

  SINS OUT OF SCHOOL

  WINTER OF DISCONTENT

  A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT

  A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT

  A Dorothy Martin Mystery

  Jeanne M. Dams

  This first world edition published 2010

  in Great Britain and in 2011 in the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

  Copyright © 2010 by Jeanne M. Dams.

  All rights reserved.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Dams, Jeanne M.

  A dark and stormy night.

  1. Martin, Dorothy (Fictitious character)–Fiction.

  2. Women private investigators–England–Fiction.

  3. Americans–England–Fiction. 4. Detective and mystery stories.

  I. Title

  813.5’4-dc22

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-6983-8 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-315-1 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-007-4 (e-book)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  The photographer in this book, Ed Walinski, walked in more-or-less uninvited when I thought my cast of characters was complete. He quickly took on many of the endearing traits of the real photographer in my life, my husband (also Polish, also, oddly enough, named Ed).

  My husband died, most unexpectedly, while this book was being written. I never had the chance to tell him I was ‘putting him in it’. I trust he knows now. So – Ed, my dearest love, this one’s for you.

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Dorothy Martin, American, sixty-something, once widowed, now living in England and married to:

  Alan Nesbit, English, retired chief constable for county of Belleshire

  Lynn and Tom Anderson, American expats living in London, good friends of Dorothy and Alan

  Jim and Joyce Moynihan, American expats living in converted thirteenth-century abbey, which is still called Branston Abbey

  Mr and Mrs Bates, English, servants to the Moynihans

  Ed Walinski, American photographer and writer

  Julie and Dave Harris, American. Julie is Joyce Moynihan’s sister

  Michael Leonev (Mike Leonard), English, dancer

  Laurence Upshawe, English, former owner of Branston Abbey, retired physician

  Paul Leatherbury, English, the vicar of Branston village

  Pat Heseltine, English, female, a solicitor from Branston village and the village

  ONE

  Anyone who has ever read a Traditional English Mystery ought to remember that a country house weekend can be, as Pogo used to say, fraught. I think I’ve read every TEM ever written, so I should have known better, but obviously my memory was taking a holiday that afternoon when Lynn called. And even weeks later, when we were nearly at our destination, my doubts were of another nature. ‘I don’t know, Alan. I’m not so sure this was a good idea.’

  My husband, fully occupied with negotiating the narrow, winding lanes of rural Kent, quirked an eyebrow without taking his eyes off the road.

  ‘I can’t think what possessed me to say we’d go. We don’t even know these people. And an old house is bound to be freezing cold in this awful weather, and there’ll be stairs everywhere, and my knees aren’t really healed yet, and anything could happen to the cats while we’re gone, and . . .’ Running out of objections, I heaved a histrionic sigh.

  Alan is used to my moods. ‘We’re committed now. And you’ll enjoy yourself. You know you love old houses. Not to mention the fireworks for Bonfire Night – Guy Fawkes and all that, you know. Lynn wouldn’t have wangled the invitation for us if she hadn’t thought the people, and the house, were reliable.’

  Our good friend Lynn Anderson, an American expat like me, had called from London a month or so ago. ‘Dorothy, my dear! Tom and I have been travelling and just heard about your operation. How are you! How are the knees?’

  I’d flexed them cautiously, one at a time. ‘Better every day, and they’d be better still if the blasted rain would only stop. I wouldn’t say I’d want to run a marathon just yet, but then I never did.’ My titanium knees were three months old, and functioning better than I’d dared hope. ‘You wouldn’t believe how spry I am, compared to when you saw me last. Speaking of which, when are we going to see the two of you again?’

  ‘That’s why I called, actually. Tom and I have an Idea.’

  I could hear the capital letter, even on the phone. ‘What sort of idea?’ I asked cautiously. The last time I’d involved myself in one of the Andersons’ Ideas, before Alan and I were married, I’d ended up in Scotland with a lot of quarrelsome people and a dead body.

  ‘How would you and Alan like to come with us for a country house weekend?’

  I chuckled. ‘As in huntin’ and shootin’ and musical beds? I thought all that went out with P.G. Wodehouse. And haven’t all the traditional country houses been turned into B-and-Bs these days, or given to the National Trust, or something?’

  ‘A lot of them have been, what with death duties and the cost of living and the impossibility of staffing those enormous places. But a few are still in private hands, mostly rich foreigners, and one of them happens to belong to some Americans we know, business associates of Tom’s. We ran into them in Antibes last week. They bought this huge old pile from someone who had moved to Australia or some place like that, and they invited us to come for a weekend next month. It’s to be over Bonfire Night, and they’ll have fireworks and all. It’s a good-sized house party, I gather, with some other people staying over, so the minute I heard about your surgery I thought you’d be needing some R and R and called the Moynihans to ask if I could bring two more. They said “the more the merrier”.’

  I’d hemmed and hawed, but after Lynn assured me the house, Branston Abbey, was old and interesting, and that the present owners had installed central heating and an elevator, I’d said that Alan and I would go. But the rain, which had kept up for a solid month, had kept my knees aching and my spirits at low ebb.

  The road straightened and widened a bit. Alan looked over at me and grinned. ‘This was your idea, you know.’

  ‘Actually it was Lynn’s. I should have known better. How do we know we’ll even like these people?’

  ‘Knees still hurting?’ said Alan, responding to the real cause of my ill temper.

  ‘Oh, not much, just stiff and a bit cranky. Like me. Sorry, Alan. I know I pushed you into this, and I expect I’ll have a wonderful time once we— great God in heaven, can that possibly be the house?’ I pushed back the broad brim of my hat so I could see better.

  Through a stand of trees that had lost some of their leaves, I could see, on a small rise, a remarkable building. From where we were it looked like a miniature castle combined with the Houses of Parliament and a touch of Her Majesty’s Prison at Wormwood Scrubs.

  Alan pulled the car over as far as he could to the side of the narrow lane and leaned over me, knocking my hat off, to look out my window. ‘Well,’ he said at last. ‘Well
.’

  ‘Lynn said it was interesting,’ I said faintly.

  Alan just shook his head and put the car in gear.

  There was another fifteen minutes of twisting lane before we turned into the private drive. It wound for about a mile through a lovely autumn-shaded wood and across a pretty stone bridge, and finally ended up on the gravel forecourt of the house. Up close it wasn’t quite so intimidating. For one thing, a lot of the details were hidden around the many odd angles.

  Alan took our luggage out of the boot and stood frankly staring at the house. ‘I would say,’ he said, ‘that this is a genuine abbey, late 1400s, that has been treated in rather cavalier fashion over the centuries. Looks like an encyclopedia of architectural styles, from the Late Perpendicular of the original abbey, to Tudor, through Georgian to a few bits of Victorian Gothick, with a hint of Brighton Pavilion thrown in for good measure.’

  ‘A bad case of architectural indigestion, in fact,’ I replied rather sourly. ‘Reminds me of Brocklesby Hall.’ The Hall, a big house near Sherebury, was built in early Victorian times in imitation of a number of styles. It is undeniably impressive, in a nightmarish sort of way.

  ‘Oh, no, no comparison at all. That monstrosity was built all of a piece. It was meant to look like that, God help us. This is organic – it grew, as the needs of the owners changed over the centuries. Good taste here, terrible taste there, but it’s genuine. Do you know, Dorothy, I think I’m going to enjoy this weekend. If other amusements pall, we can always go on a treasure hunt for the best and worst bits. I’d swear that gargoyle up there is original fourteenth century, for example.’

  ‘You’re showing off. Ten to one you looked it up before we started.’ I craned my neck, but my interest in gargoyles is limited, and the wind was picking up. ‘I’m sure it’s everything you say, but I’m cold and my hat’s going to blow off. Can we admire the house from inside, do you think?’

  At that moment a door opened and Lynn, effervescent as always, burst out with another woman, middle-aged and running a little, comfortably, to fat. She was dressed in a tweed skirt, a cashmere sweater, and pearls, and the fact that they were a little too new and a little too flawless marked her instantly as our American hostess.

  Lynn performed introductions. ‘Dorothy, this is Joyce Moynihan. Joyce, Dorothy Martin and Alan Nesbitt.’

  ‘So glad to meet you,’ said Joyce with a warm smile. ‘Lynn’s told me all about you both. Dorothy, I love your hat. I wish I looked good in them. Now, dear, you mustn’t try the front steps. They’re one of our big-deal show pieces, but I’ll bet this weather is playing hell with your knees. I had one of mine done a while back, so I know. Anyway, you must be freezing in this awful wind, so if you’ll just come with me, there’s an entrance to what used to be the servants’ hall, and an elevator a few steps beyond. Not exactly the most elegant way to enter the house, but once you’ve had a nice hot bath you’ll be better able to tackle stairs and we’ll give you the grand tour. OK?’

  Her accent was pure Midwest, speech I hadn’t heard in quite a while, and her welcome glowed with that all-embracing cordiality that you get from the nicest Americans. ‘OK!’ I said, my good spirits restored. I followed her and Lynn into the house, Alan bringing up the rear with our suitcases.

  Joyce left us at the elevator. ‘I’ve been running around today like the proverbial chicken, and right now there’s a crisis in the kitchen I have to deal with, so I hope you don’t mind – Lynn knows the way. As soon as you’re rested, come down and have some tea. No special time, just whenever you’re ready. See you later.’ With a cheerful wave, she was off at a trot in the direction of what I supposed was the kitchen.

  ‘OK, Lynn, you’ve been here a day already. Clue us in to the set-up,’ I said the instant the elevator door closed. ‘Why is Madame dealing with kitchen crises? Don’t tell me the cook has left in some sort of a huff.’

  ‘My dear, you’re still fixated back in 1930s novels. Cooks don’t leave in huffs nowadays. They’re paid enormous salaries and demand exactly the equipment they want, and cook exactly what they please. Most of them are caterers, actually, just coming in for special events. This one is a permanent fixture, lives here with her husband, who’s a sort of general factotum – butler cum chauffeur cum handyman. And she’s not old and fat and comfortable. Quite the contrary, in fact. Young, très chic, cooks divine nouvelle cuisine. Her husband is a hunk – tall, fair, great bones, classic good looks.’ Lynn rolled her eyes in a mock swoon as the elevator came to a stop on the second floor, or in English terminology the first floor, the one above the ground floor. She led us down the hall, up a step, to the right, then down a step and around a corner.

  ‘We shall need a trail of breadcrumbs,’ said Alan mildly. ‘Do you mean to tell me one man looks after this entire sprawling house? Because I won’t believe you.’

  ‘Mr Bates – note the Mister, please, he doesn’t like to be called Bates or whatever his first name is. And he doesn’t look after the house at all, except for maintenance jobs, plumbing and electric and so on. There’s a cleaning service that comes in for the dusting and scrubbing and all that, and a lawn and garden service for the grounds. Mr Bates supervises – in grand fashion, I might add.’

  ‘And voilà, the servant problem is solved,’ I commented, slightly out of breath. ‘It must cost a small fortune.’

  ‘Probably, but Jim Moynihan still has a biggish fortune, so it’s all right. And here we are, finally. I had Joyce put you in one of the Tudor bedrooms. I thought you’d like sleeping where Queen Elizabeth might very well have slept, once upon a very long time ago.’ She opened the door.

  ‘QE One, that would be— oh!’ My first sight of the room took my breath away.

  This wasn’t fake Tudor, ‘stockbroker Tudor’ as the English sneeringly used to call it. This was the real thing, a room created or at least redecorated when the first Elizabeth sat on the throne. The walls were panelled in carved oak, the linenfold panelling so often seen in the stately homes I had visited. Everything else was carved, too – the fireplace in stone, the ceiling in elaborate plasterwork. The casement windows had tiny diamond panes, and the floor was made of wide oak planks darkened to near-black over the centuries.

  ‘Wow!’ I said brilliantly.

  Lynn grinned. ‘There are no words, are there? And this,’ she said, opening a concealed door in one corner, ‘is not the priest’s hole or the powder closet – though it certainly may once have been one or the other – but your very own bathroom. Joyce and Jim remodelled them all – after months of delays getting planning permission, I might add – and all done in the very latest American-style plumbing. Yours has a whirlpool bath, with steps to get into it.’

  I sank into a chair by the fire, which was blazing away. ‘I’ve fallen into a dream of paradise. Don’t anybody wake me up.’

  ‘Told you you’d like it,’ said Lynn triumphantly, and left us to get settled.

  I walked over to the window. Alan came to stand beside me, and we looked out on to one of the most beautiful landscapes I’ve ever seen. A broad stone terrace next to the house gave way to a sloping lawn, the kind of lawn I’d never seen anywhere but in England – lush, green, and perfectly smooth. I remembered reading, somewhere, someone’s recipe for the perfect lawn: You plant grass, and then mow and roll it for four hundred years.

  The rain had stopped for a bit, mercifully, and the clouds had thinned enough to let colours assert themselves. To one side, flower gardens were still brilliant with chrysanthemums and asters, though the roses were getting sparse. In the middle distance, perhaps a hundred yards from the house, shrubs and a pond gave way to taller trees, oak and ash and some I didn’t recognize. A path wound through the plantings down to a silver river on which a few swans floated, pale and graceful, their feathers ruffled now and then by the rising wind.

  ‘“This scepter’d isle”,’ my husband quoted softly, ‘“. . . this other Eden, demi-paradise . . . this precious stone set in the silver sea . . .�
�’

  ‘Mmm. Or, as we crass Americans have been known to put it, this is what God would do if He had money. No wonder the Moynihans love it here. The view alone is worth however many million pounds they paid for the place. And Joyce is a perfect dear. You were right, Alan – as is your irritating habit. I’m going to have a good time here.’

  I took a long, luxurious bath in the wonderful tub. I hadn’t been able to get in and out of a regular tub in ages, what with the bad knees, so I was especially grateful for the steps.

  ‘You’re going to turn to a prune, love,’ Alan said finally. ‘Besides, tea awaits, and I’m feeling rather peckish.’

  So I reluctantly got out, dressed, and found my cane, and we set out in search of a staircase to take us down to tea.

  Alan has an excellent bump of direction, which is a good thing, because I have virtually none. Give me a map and I can find anything. Without it I’m hopeless. I paused in the hallway. ‘This way?’ I said tentatively, pointing to the left.

  ‘No, to the right, I’d think. We didn’t pass any stairs on our way from the lift, so it must be on down the corridor.’ And of course he was right – again. The next little jog brought us to a somewhat more modern part of the house and a grand staircase down to the entrance hall. ‘Georgian?’ I ventured, looking at pillars and pilasters, marble and polished stone.

  ‘Well done, my dear! Basically Georgian, modified a trifle so as to blend in with the rest of the house. I imagine this part was redone when a particularly prosperous owner began to entertain largely, and wanted to show off. The place must have an interesting history, though the Internet didn’t mention much.’