Lady Rample Box Set Collection Two: Lady Rample Mysteries

Lady Rample Sits In

Lady Rample Mysteries – Book Four

Shéa MacLeod

LADY RAMPLE SITS IN

Lady Rample Mysteries – Book Four

COPYRIGHT © 2018 by Shéa MacLeod

All rights reserved.

Printed in the United States of America.

Cover Art and Design by Amanda Kelsey of Razzle Dazzle Designs

Editing by Alin Silverwood

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

For Lyn, Sheena, Dawn, and Jimbo,

who were all there for my French adventures.

Chapter 1

W e’re all going to die.

The words were spoken with such grim finality that one might find oneself believing them if not for the fact they were spoken by my maid, Maddie. While not prone to histrionics generally, she did tend to look on the not-so-bright side of things. And as the sea was currently calm as glass, one could be fairly certain she was exaggerating.

We’re not going to die, Maddie, my Aunt Butty said bracingly as she strode down the deck of the Ile de France—possibly the most beautiful ocean liner I’d ever seen.

We are so, M’lady, Maddie insisted with great stubbornness, trotting after her. People weren’t meant to travel like this. We’ll sink to the bottom for sure.

Nonsense, I said. You had no problems on the outbound journey. She hadn’t even gotten seasick, which was more than I could say for myself. The voyage from England to America had been uneventful for everyone in our party but me. I’d spent a great deal of time in my room.

That were on a bigger boat, Maddie pointed out. This thing could get tossed about easy. One gust of wind, and we’re in Davy Jones’s locker!

This is a perfectly sound vessel. Not the fastest, but quite glamorous. And we’ll be in Le Havre in seven days. I, for one, look forward to the voyage. Aunt Butty adjusted her hat—a bright orange monstrosity festooned with garish yellow ribbons and peacock feathers dyed vermillion. More than a few passengers stared, but Aunt Butty ignored them utterly. In another time, she might have been called An Original. As it was, I was beginning to think she might be color blind.

Come, Ophelia, she called to me. Let’s take a turn about the deck. Maddie, don’t dawdle.

I followed in Aunt Butty’s wake, Maddie bringing up the rear clutching a massive carpet bag to her flat chest. Within it were the accoutrements Aunt Butty insisted on having with her at all times. I’d no idea what was in there, but I felt sorry for Maddie. It looked heavy.

We’d left Hollywood eleven days earlier and none too soon for my tastes. Yes, it was glamorous, but it was also exhausting and rather...well, fake, if I were honest. And then there was that ghastly murder business and being kidnapped by gangsters... I’d be very glad to get my feet back on English soil.

Except, I reminded myself, we weren’t headed to England, but to Le Havre, France where we would then catch a train to Nice and my villa. And I would finally be able to see Hale Davis—my paramour, for lack of a better word—again. Too bad Aunt Butty had insisted on opulence over speed in choosing a mode of transportation or I could have seen him a few days earlier. Alas, Aunt Butty had a way of getting what she wanted. And so we set sail from New York on the Ile de France with all the pomp and circumstance due our station.

My name is Ophelia, Lady Rample, widow of the late Lord Rample. Thanks to his generosity I’m richer than a person has any right to be and absolutely free to do as I please, when I please. A fact which stirred up the upper crust into a veritable tizzy. They did not approve, and yet there wasn’t a thing they could do about it. Which amused me no end. Sometimes I was more like my aunt than I might want to admit.

She was my mother’s sister and had done very well herself in the marriage department. More than once, in fact. She lived exactly how she liked with no care as to what anyone else thought. Quite Bohemian, really. Also, she had ghastly taste in hats.

Have you seen Chaz, Aunt Butty? Charles Chaz Raynott was my best friend and sometime sleuthing partner. He’d been visiting a friend out in Hollywood at the same time we were there for a wedding. After the exhausting events that ensued, I’d invited him to join us at my villa and we’d all decided to take the same ship together.

Haven’t seen him since we boarded. I’m sure he’s about. No doubt in the smoking parlor playing cards with the other young men.

No doubt, I murmured. Chaz did enjoy a good game. And the occasional young man.

We’re dining at the Captain’s table tonight, Aunt Butty announced out of nowhere.

Yes, Aunt, I’m aware. It was apparently a great honor to dine at the Captain’s table. Frankly, I doubted there would be anyone interesting there. Just a lot of stuffy people with too much money and not enough sense. Which was a little like the pot and the kettle except that I certainly had some sense. I had, after all, not been born wealthy and had instead been raised by a vicar. So maybe not so much sense after all.

What do you plan to wear? I thought I’d wear that pink affair I picked up in New York.

I managed to hold back a horrified gasp. The pink affair was a rather lovely bias-cut gown in a satin fabric that was absolutely destroyed by being flamingo pink and having layers of ruffled tiers flowing from the waistline, making my aunt’s hips and backside look even more voluptuous than they already were. Worse, she’d the habit of pairing it with an equally pink bolero jacket trimmed in black ostrich feathers. To say it made a statement was putting it mildly.

I’m wearing the Coco, I replied quickly. The stunning blue gown had only been worn once in Hollywood. I doubted there would be anyone here to see that I wore it again. Beside which, it was too delicious to leave lying in a steamer trunk. Unlike some women of my class who insisted on never wearing a gown twice, I bought dresses because I liked them and wished to wear them often. I considered wearing a dress once to be a waste of good money.

Excellent choice, Aunt Butty approved. Oh, look. There are the Whatsits. I must go say hello. I’ll see you at dinner, Ophelia. And she sailed off without a backward glance, leaving poor Maddie looking confused.

You better go after her, I said. Just in case she needs anything.

Maddie rolled her eyes. Miss Butty—

Lady Lucas, I corrected.

She sighed heavily. Lady Lucas probably forgot I was even here.

No doubt she was right, but I shooed her off anyway. Maddie might be my maid, but she was doing for both Aunt Butty and me this trip, plus I could use a bit of time to myself.

It had been a long and tiring journey from the West Coast of the States and a nap sounded just the thing. There was plenty of time before dinner, and I wanted to feel my best.

As I made my way toward my stateroom, I took a corner a little too sharply and barreled into someone. I careened backward into a bulkhead and barely caught myself before I could crash to the ground in an ungracious heap.

Oh, I say! The tone was male and outraged.

So sorry, I said, glancing down. It wasn’t often I was forced to look down, but the man who I had crashed into was barely shoulder height, round as a billiard ball, and cherubic of face, though he must be long past sixty. He looked like a very scowly Father Christmas. Minus the beard.

He let out a huff, straightened his jacket, and marched off without a word. Dashed rude if you ask me.

Recovering my wits, I continued on to my room, but the memory of that angry Father Christmas face stayed with me.

Once inside my stateroom, I kicked off my heels and was about to lay down, when I heard a bellow. Man overboard!

Almost immediately, the engines cut out, the constant hum from below going silent. The ship slowed, though it did not come to a complete stop.

Oh, dear, what now? I muttered to myself. There was no way I was going to miss something so exciting as a sea rescue.

I shoved my feet back in my pumps and rushed for the deck. A crowd had gathered along the rail, and I instantly spotted Aunt Butty.

Ophelia! Over here. She beckoned with one hand while holding on to her enormous yellow and orange hat with the other. It’s Maddie.

What? I broke into a run and pushed through the throng to stare down into the frothy sea. A rowboat manned by several uniformed sailors was pulling through the water away from the ship. Where is she?

Look, they’ve got her! someone yelled.

A small cheer went up as one of the sailors hoisted aboard a sodden figure. Then they made their ponderous way back, rowing through the wake of the ship.

What happened? I demanded.

Well, we were walking along, and I spotted someone I knew. I tried to get his attention when some drunk tottered into poor Maddie and knocked her right overboard. Aunt Butty didn’t take her eyes off the approaching boat.

That doesn’t sound likely. He’d have had to give her a real shove. The rail is waist high.

Well, you know how Maddie is. No sea legs whatsoever. Easy topple. Aunt Butty didn’t sound at all concerned.

Still...did you see who it was? For some reason, an angry Father Christmas face floated through my mind.

Alas, no, or I’d have given him a piece of my mind. Drunk at two in the afternoon!

Apparently my aunt’s Bohemian tendencies did not extend to drunkenness during inappropriate hours.

Maddie was finally helped aboard with profuse apologies from the crew and a great deal of staring from the passengers. I took her immediately back to our rooms so she could change clothes.

I’m sorry, milady. I’ll likely catch my death, she said, shivering as I led her down the hall, still wrapped in a rough blanket one of the sailors had give her.

I sighed. Don’t be so dramatic, Maddie. You’ll be fine once you change and have some hot tea. Maybe we should both have a nap before dinner.

She sniffled but nodded in agreement.

What happened? Aunt Butty said someone pushed you.

Yes, milady. Shoved me right hard, she did.

She? I thought it was a man? My aunt said he was drunk.

She shook her head. No, milady, it were a woman for sure and certain. She did it on purpose.

I patted her arm as I opened the door to her room for her. Don’t be silly. Why would anyone push you on purpose?

Don’t know, milady, but I know she did.

I sighed. Did you see who it was?

She shook her head. She’d a veil over her face.

A veil? On a ship? I’d seen no one with a veil. The whole thing sounded...absurd. But something deep inside me shifted uneasily.

THE FIRST-CLASS DINING room was a massive, rectangular space well-lit by dozens of small, square lighting fixtures set flush in the ceiling and decorated in gray marble and gold accents. All very art deco. At one end, a mural of a waterfall stretched nearly three decks high. On the other end, an elegant staircase. In the middle of the room stood a sculptural fountain of light spires shooting up from a wide chrome bowl.

This is the largest dining room afloat, did you know? Aunt Butty said, leading the way in.

Er, no, I didn’t.

Ladies. The black-garbed maître d' stepped forward. If you will please follow me to the Captain’s table.

Lead on, Aunt Butty ordered airily. I held back a smirk.

The man led us through the tables toward the head table. As we passed by the fountain, I noticed the round man I’d bumped into earlier seated next to a plump, gray-haired woman in a frothy peach dress much too young for her.

Who is that couple over there? I murmured to Aunt Butty. She seemed to know everyone who was anyone, both in London and aboard ship.

That’s Lady Scrubbs. I met her once at some party or other. That’s her husband, Sir Eustace, though I’ve never seen him before this voyage. I saw them boarding together in New York but didn’t have the chance to reintroduce myself. In fact, he’s the one I saw on deck before Maddie took her swim.

Ah. I had never heard of Sir Eustace Scrubbs or his wife, nor had I seen them at any society functions. I determined to ask Aunt Butty more about them when we had a moment to ourselves. I couldn’t say why I was so curious, but I was. Sir Eustace took that moment to snap at a poor hapless waiter, causing the man to slosh wine. It spattered down the white tablecloth like little drops of blood.

I frowned. Something just felt a bit off about Sir Eustace.

At last we arrived to be greeted by Captain Blancart who introduced us around the table. Perhaps you know the Comtesse d'Angoulême.

Aunt Butty gave the older woman a stiff nod. Antonia.

The Comtesse, dressed all in black with her hair pulled back in a severe bun, sniffed. "Mrs. Trent."

Aunt Butty’s eyes narrowed and I was half afraid there’d be a brawl right then and there. Although Aunt Butty’s most recent husband had been a mere Mr. Trent, she preferred going by her second husband’s name—or was it third?—Lady Lucas. Fortunately the Captain, being a man of vast intelligence and quick wit, moved on. Mr. Virgil Brightwell and his son, Mr. Alexander Brightwell, hailing from Texas.

How do, ladies? Mr. Alexander Brightwell was around Aunt Butty’s age, dressed in a western style suit with a string bowtie. I’d bet anything he had cowboy boots on under the table. His son was a few years younger than myself, and dressed with a great deal less... character.

Mrs. Verity Jones, he said, turning to a handsome, middle-aged woman dressed almost as colorfully as Aunt Butty. Both her name and face seemed familiar, but I couldn’t place either.

Charmed, Mrs. Jones said with a broad smile.  

And finally, the Captain turned to the young couple at the table, Mr. and Mrs. Geisel from New York. We’re still waiting for our final guest.

Mr. Geisel had thick, black eyebrows and a rather prominent nose. Mrs. Geisel had short, dark hair and a wide smile. I was seated next to her, with Aunt Butty seated next to Mr. Geisel.

I’m sorry, Mrs. Geisel said softy, but I take it Mrs. Trent isn’t your name?

I prefer Lady Lucas, Aunt Butty said. But you can call me Butty. Everyone does.

And I’m Helen, Mrs. Geisel offered.

I prefer to be called ‘Dr. Seuss,’ Mr. Geisel said.

Aunt Butty frowned. Zeus? Like the Greek god? Oh, I love Greece. When I was in my twenties I met this gorgeous Greek man—

No, Aunt Butty, I interrupted whatever inappropriate story she was about to launch into. It’s ‘Sousa’ — like the American composer.

Dr. Seuss grimaced. No, no... just Seuss.

Aunt Butty laughed. Oh, we must seem like children who need you to spell that out for with pictures.

Funny you should say that, Helen said. Theodor is quite the artist. I’ve been telling him he should write a children’s book.

I draw cartoons, dear, he said dryly.

Still, that’s very artistic, Aunt Butty said generously. I couldn’t draw a straight line to save my life!

Are you travelling to France? I asked Helen.

Of course, they’re travelling to France, Ophelia, Aunt Butty laughed. "We’re all travelling to France."

I rolled my eyes. I mean, what is your final stop?

Helen grinned. We’re going to travel all over France. That’s the plan, isn’t it, Theodor? We adore exploring new countries.

Yes, dear, Dr. Seuss agreed. We’ve been to, what? A dozen so far?

I’d have to count, but something like that, Helen agreed. I can’t wait to drink real French wine in a real French vineyard!

Just then Chaz arrived, looking dapper in a black tux, his dark hair sleeked back. The Captain introduced him around as our final diner, which came as a pleasant surprise. He hadn’t told me he’d be dining at the Captain’s table with us. He gave me a little wave from where he was seated down between the Comtesse and Mrs. Jones.

It came to me then that Mrs. Jones was a somewhat well-known actress, though slightly past her prime. I’d seen her in a Noel Coward play not long before leaving London for America. I guess I’d been wrong. We were seated with some interesting people.

While Aunt Butty and Helen espoused the virtues of French wine versus Italian wine, I took a moment to address Mr. Alexander Brightwell, who was seated on my left. He was a reasonably handsome young man in a bland, pasty sort of way, as if the colorfulness of the father had been leached right out of the son, leaving behind a shadow. A pale imitation.

So you’re from Texas? I asked.

Yes. My father has a small ranch there.

My guess was that as he was sailing on the Ile de France and seated at the Captain’s table, it was more than a small ranch. Do you work there also? On the ranch, I mean?

He didn’t look the sort. His skin was too pale, his suit too neat, and his hands too soft. Unlike his father who was hearty, tanned, and rough around the edges.

Oh, no, my father wanted me to do something more with my life than herd cattle. I just finished my law degree. And before I sit for the bar exam, my father decided I needed a little reward. Hence this trip to Europe. He didn’t seem excited.

Frankly, I’d have given my eyeteeth for a chance to tour Europe, but my father wasn’t the sort to do such a thing, even if he’d had the money. And even though Aunt Butty had and would have gladly taken me wherever I wished to go, by the time she’d rescued me from a life of drudgery at the vicarage, it wasn’t long before we were at war and travel was no longer an option.

Since I doubted the younger Mr. Brightwell would appreciate a lecture from me on thankfulness, I murmured something vague and then turned my attention elsewhere. People-watching was a favored pastime of mine. I find them so fascinating. What makes them tick? Why does one person end up with another? My mother used to say I had an overactive imagination. I don’t think there’s any such thing.

From where I sat, I couldn’t see Sir Eustace or his wife. The fountain stood in the way. Too bad. It would have been interesting to see how the angry little man got on with his wife as supper progressed. She’d looked frightfully out of place in her too-young gown. Not at all the sort I’d expect to be married to a knight. Perhaps he gained his knighthood late in life and came from a common background. That would explain her lack of taste. Then again, he’d sounded posh enough. Perhaps a third son of a third son or the like.

Curiosity or no, I didn’t want my trip spoiled by Sir Eustace’s unpleasantness, so I determined to avoid the man at all costs and put him promptly out of my head. I planned not to think about him again for the entirety of the voyage. Although I might have done differently if I’d known what was to come.

Chapter 2

Gare de Nice-Ville , the main train station in Nice, was a marvel of Arles stone sculptures and grand chandeliers, with a roof of forged steel. It was elegant and typically French, to my mind, with all the hustle and bustle one expected, but at a more leisurely pace than I was used to in London.

Inside echoed with the shriek of train whistles and the hum of hundreds of voices as passengers embarked and disembarked, headed to locations across France. A porter trotted behind us with our luggage piled on a cart while Aunt Butty strode ahead, parting the way through the crowd like Moses parting the Red Sea. I wasn’t entirely sure if this feat was accomplished by the force of her personality, or because everyone was too busy staring at her hat.

Today’s epic headgear was an oversized bicorn in plum and white striped silk moiré taffeta. The upturned front brim was pinned in place with a massive flower of the same fabric. I was fairly certain the thing had been in her closet since 1915. When I asked her about it, she claimed her hat maker, Marcel, had copied it from a famous French firm, Tore.

So it’s new then? I’d asked cautiously.

But, of course, dear. Isn’t it fabulous?

I could never understand why Marcel insisted on replicating hats from decades ago. Or why my aunt insisted on wearing them.

In any case, we made it to the front of the station quickly and found Mr. Singh—Aunt Butty’s Sikh butler—waiting with the car. Once everything was loaded in and Aunt Butty, Chaz, and I were settled in the back with Maddie up front next to Mr. Singh, we zoomed off into the city.

My villa was in the little village of Auron-sur-mer, just on the other side of Nice. Mr. Singh wound carefully through the narrow cobblestone streets, bound on either side by stunning Belle Epoch buildings. At last we came to the Promenade des Anglais, the wide avenue lined with soaring palm trees and a breathtaking view of the sea, sparkling under the midday sun.

Eventually, we left the city behind, the buildings giving way to vistas of evergreen shrubs, stone pine, and arbutus, and the more tropical palms, eucalyptus, and citrus trees.

The road here wound so close to the sea, it was almost as if I could reach out the window and scoop up the warm water in my hand. I smiled at such a fanciful notion.

At last we began to climb ever so slightly up a rocky promontory before winding down and inland a bit. And then there was the drive which split halfway. We took the right fork.

And there, glistening in the sun, was the Villa de la Belle Mer—House of the Beautiful Sea. Felix, my late husband, had been rather prone to hyperbole on occasion. It huddled on the rocky cliffside, pale pink with a tile roof and numerous archways supporting the roof which shaded the veranda.

The veranda, partially shaded by a large pine and surrounded by a stone balustrade, looked out over the sea, providing a view almost to the heart of Nice itself. To one side was a small pool, perfect for taking a dip on overly warm days.

To the left were our nearest neighbors in a classic French villa with warm, yellow walls and a thriving garden. I’d no idea who lived there, but they shared the drive partway. A low stone wall separated our properties, but only just. One could easily step over and push one's way through the greenery.

The neighbor to the right was a bit further away and almost completely hidden from view by thick vegetation. I could only just see the tip of the roof peeking over the citrus trees.

Mr. Singh pulled up to my front door and turned off the engine. Welcome home, Lady Rample, Lady Lucas, Mr. Raynott. Flora will have refreshments waiting for you on the veranda while Maddie and I take your luggage to your rooms. His tone implied that if Flora didn’t have refreshments waiting, there’d be hell to pay.

We did, indeed, find Flora out on the veranda. Her round cheeks were flushed crimson from the heat and her ample form strained at her summer uniform—a simple cotton dress in dove-gray with a white apron over it—which was at least a dozen years out of date.

Oh, dear, we’re going to need to get that girl a uniform that fits properly, Aunt Butty murmured. I think she must have filched that one from your servant’s quarters.

Didn’t you get her a summer uniform before she left London? I asked. Aunt Butty had sent her maid down to France while we were in America.

Of course I did. She probably forgot it. You know how she is.

I did. Flora was possibly the worst maid in the whole of England. She was one of Aunt Butty’s orphans. Not a literal orphan, but one of those interesting people she collected. Like Mr. Singh, or Cyril Brumble, the poor man who’d died in America.

What have you got there, Flora? Chaz asked, striding toward the dining table set up to take advantage of the magnificent view.

Hiya, Mr. Chaz, she said, giving