A Most Efficient Murder: The Mr. Quayle Mysteries, #1

1

A FATAL ANNOUNCEMENT

From his perch atop the highest turret, Edward Statham, the Thirteenth Earl of Unsworth could see out across his domain—from the winding gardens and rolling parks to the lakes and woodlands beyond.

Even on a night such as this, when the moon was little more than a pale sliver, and the stars were all but hidden behind the clouds, Lord Unsworth knew the shapes and shadows of his estate intimately. As well he should, for His Lordship had lived his entire life within the walls and bowers of Unsworth Castle. It was his ancestral seat, his bastion, his refuge from the bustle and vagaries of the world, now sadly invaded. No, not just invaded. Despoiled! Annexed! Overrun!

The enemy was not just at the gates but within them. Even now, Lord Unsworth could see them in his mind’s eye, that horde of increasingly tenuous relations—aunts, uncles, and cousins once, twice and thrice removed—all milling about in his parlor, dancing in his drawing room, and traipsing through his garden.

Worst of all, though, he could hear them, as the endless murmur of their inane conversation and cloying laughter wafted up on the breeze, reaching him even here in his furthermost sanctum. And yet, as he hoarded these last precious moments of solitude, Lord Unsworth knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this invasion was his fault.

After all, he had invited them here—every single one of them.

To be fair, it was not that Lord Unsworth despised his relatives or even truly disliked them. Despite a rather unsociable reputation, His Lordship was genuinely fond of people in his own vague, distant sort of way; the further the better.

Tonight, however, was a special occasion—several occasions, in fact. The guests, at least according to their invitations, had all been cordially invited to visit the newly renovated East Wing of the castle, painstakingly and expensively restored to its former glory and now home to the fabled Unsworth Trove, Lord Unsworth’s pride and joy—the most extensive privately-owned collection of medieval artifacts in all England.

The party would also, it was generally understood, serve as a birthday celebration for Lord Unsworth’s niece—the Hon. Frances Fanny Statham—who by a lucky coincidence had turned eighteen within weeks of the renovation being completed.

Theirs was a peculiar friendship, stretching as it did across a great gulf of time and temperament. In truth, they had very little in common. Fanny was a Bright Young Thing—outgoing where he was insular, daring where he was conservative—and from the first she had steadfastly refused to feign even the slightest interest in either of his two favorite topics of conversation: Late Medieval architecture and the long and storied history of the Unsworth Family. But amongst all his many and varied relations, Fanny was, unequivocally, Lord Unsworth’s favorite.

Still, Lord Unsworth knew that none of that was why they had come—the horde. Word had gotten out, spreading quickly, as only gossip and poison could, and drawn them to him—his loving family—like vultures to the feast.

Few, if any, of them had even set eyes on Fanny before tonight, and fewer still gave any thought to the Trove. That was Lord Unsworth’s Little Peculiarity, as they called it. A harmless enough eccentricity, considering some of his predecessors’ vices, but hardly worth such a grand hoopla. It was not as if he had located a Viking hoard or a Saxon burial mound or solved the riddle of the long-lost Unsworth Diamonds. That might have been worth the effort. But no! All Lord Unsworth ever did was read through old manuscripts, catalogue his collection of trinkets, and compulsively write and rewrite his endless, unreadable book—a family history of gargantuan proportions.

Lord Unsworth snorted. Their mistake! But, alas, his loving family had come for another reason entirely.

Tonight was the night, they whispered to each other as they danced and ate. Tonight it would be decided.

Lord Unsworth’s Great Matter.

A delicate cough interrupted his musing, and Lord Unsworth turned to find the butler standing unobtrusively behind him. Perkins was as grave and immaculate as ever, if a little out of breath, but there was a peculiar glint in his eyes and without knowing why, Lord Unsworth was struck by a strange sense of foreboding.

Forgive me, Your Lordship, Perkins said. I did not wish to disturb you, but there appears to be a body in the garden.

A body? Lord Unsworth repeated slowly.

Yes, Your Lordship.

In the garden?

Yes, Your Lordship.

"Our garden?" Lord Unsworth frowned. His thoughts were, perhaps, a trifle slower and less wieldy than they had once been—especially after several glasses of wine and a rather fine single malt—but His Lordship could not help but feel as though he had missed something vital. It was a feeling which had crept up on him throughout the evening—a gnawing sense that he had overlooked something. Perhaps if he knew what it was, Lord Unsworth reflected, he might have been able to make sense of his butler’s rather odd pronouncement.

I’m afraid so, Your Lordship, Perkins said. Mr. Quayle has examined the body, but he thought it might be for the best if you had a look for yourself.

Mr. Quayle? Lord Unsworth exhaled, releasing a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

He was relieved but not surprised to learn that his secretary had already taken charge of the situation. Mr. Quayle had only recently entered his service, following the previous secretary’s rather ignominious departure, but Quayle had already shown himself to be a trustworthy and eminently capable fellow.

Yes, Your Lordship. When I left, he was endeavoring to keep the rest of the guests away from… He coughed delicately. The young lady in question.

I see.

Perkins cleared his throat. The strange glint was back in his eyes, but this time Lord Unsworth, somewhat belatedly, recognized it for what it was—dread.

Mr. Quayle also suggested that it might be prudent for you to ring the police as soon as possible.

The police?

Yes, Your Lordship. You see, I’m rather afraid that the young woman has been murdered.

2

LORD UNSWORTH DESCENDS

Murdered! The word tore through His Lordship’s thoughts like a knife, leaving a trail of scars and gashes in what remained of his long-cherished hopes and plans. As far as Lord Unsworth could recall, no one had been murdered at Unsworth Castle since the late eighteenth century, when the fourth Earl’s two sons had killed each other in a duel over some minor inheritance or another.

Lord Unsworth scowled. When he had suggested in the past, as he sometimes did, that the family should revive some of their older traditions, this was not even remotely what he had in mind. And on tonight, of all nights, with the whole family in attendance, waiting and watching and judging. Madness! Utter madness!

Such was his confusion and uproar that Lord Unsworth barely even noticed as he barreled down the winding stairs—two, three, even four at a time—with a degree of vigor that was frankly alarming in a man of his age.

Perkins, only a few scant years younger than his employer, was well in the rear, huffing and puffing with every step while wearing an expression that suggested serious doubts about whether he or His Lordship would survive their descent.

Perkins’ concerns were not ill-founded but ultimately proved groundless. Lord Unsworth knew every inch, corner, and stone of his castle, and even as his thoughts reeled and whirled, his feet knew their business, never once losing their purchase as they leapt from stair to stair, almost as if they had a mind and memory of their own.

And then, suddenly, Lord Unsworth emerged from the dark closeness of the stair into the bewildering brightness of the party itself.

His Lordship barely even had time to catch his breath before the horde was upon him in a swirling sea of dresses and sashes, ribands and medals—all glinting in the candlelight.

Everywhere he turned, Lord Unsworth could sense their eyes watching him, even as they laughed and twirled, and he felt the weight of their anticipation. They had all paid homage—these lords and ladies, viscounts and baronets—to the prodigal niece and dutifully made their pilgrimages to view Lord Unsworth’s little trove. But they had waited long enough, their eyes seemed to say. It was time.

"Ah! There you are! Where have you been hiding yourself, Eddy?"

It was a sharp, cutting voice—a voice made for marshaling armies and commanding nations—and within a single syllable, it brought Lord Unsworth’s thoughts to a stuttering halt. His sister had always had that effect on him, ever since their nursery days. She had been a tyrant even then.

Not now, Constance, he said, trying desperately not to sound like a sulking child.

Yes, now. A thin domineering woman with barbed eyes, steel-gray hair, and a tongue to match, Lady Constance was accustomed to seeing herself as the power behind the throne—or at least behind His Lordship’s coronet—and had never been shy about showing it.

You may have managed to spirit yourself away after dinner—probably hiding in that turret of yours—but you’re not wriggling away from me again. You know how much I despise dealing with this rabble.

Lord Unsworth hesitated. Given a choice between facing a corpse in the garden or his sister in high dudgeon, Lord Unsworth knew which he would consider the better part of valor. Lady Constance, however, was not amused.

With fingers like manacles, she frogmarched him out onto the terrace and dispatched a giggling pair of partygoers with a politely terrifying glare.

"I have spent the past two hours—two hours, Eddy—listening to the Countess of Caversham boast in one ear about her son’s appointment as undersecretary of the navy, while Lady Marksby twittered on in the other, extolling her daughter’s virtues. Virtues? Ha! And Lord Montford had the audacity to mention Sybille to me—our Sybille. Imagine that! The nerve! The utter gall! But never mind about all that—"

What was that about Sybille? Lord Unsworth asked with a frown. He hadn’t heard that name in years.

I said never mind. Lady Constance’s tone brooked no argument. We have more important matters to attend to.

Yes, Lord Unsworth agreed solemnly. I suppose we do. But how on earth did you…?

Oh, come now, Eddy. Everyone knows.

Everyone? Lord Unsworth glanced back into the house dubiously. As far as he could tell, none of the assembled lords and ladies had murder on the mind—or did they?

Lord Unsworth shuddered. That was not a possibility which had occurred to him before, but now that it had, he found that he was vaguely annoyed. If any of their lordships had wanted to kill someone, then they could have bloody well done it on their own estates and saved him a world of trouble.

Well, of course. Lady Constance tutted. "Why do you think they’re all here? I know you’re very fond of her and all, and Fanny is a lovely girl—if, perhaps, a little spoiled—but the family has not descended on us en masse merely to celebrate her birthday. Or to see your little trinkets."

Ah, Lord Unsworth said, relieved. You mean the Great Matter.

Well, of course I mean the Great Matter—what did you think I meant? Honestly, Eddy, pull yourself together! Anyone might think you were going senile. She frowned as a different culprit occurred to her. You haven’t been drinking, have you?

No, Lord Unsworth lied. That is, perhaps a little, but…

Good. Lady Constance flared her nostrils and snorted. In any case, if you’ve finally seen fit to grace us with your presence, then you must be planning to make your little announcement soon. I thought that Robert and I might gather everyone in the gallery first, although really Arthur should be there too…

She frowned, her imperious air snagging briefly on the thought of her son.

You haven’t seen him, have you? I know Fanny and that Major of hers—whatshisname—went gallivanting off into the shrubbery, but no one has seen Arthur since dinner.

No, I haven’t seen him.

Oh. Lady Constance looked disappointed. The expression sat awkwardly on her face. In the circumstances, I thought the two of you might have a great deal to talk about.

In the circumstances? Lord Unsworth raised his eyebrows. It occurred to him that, perhaps, he ought to have spoken to Constance about this sooner, but he had never been able to find the courage, and now—now the succession was hardly their gravest problem.

There’s something you should know, Constance.

Yes? She glared impatiently up at him, but something in his eyes brought her short. What is it? she asked more genuinely this time.

He couldn’t quite bring himself to answer.

Eddy? What’s wrong?

3

THE STRANGER IN THE GARDEN

The poor woman had been murdered. That much had been obvious, even at first glance, but Mr. Quayle could not help but find something strange—almost dreamlike—about the scene laid out before him. He had seen his share—more than his share—of death in the fields and trenches of France, but to find it here amongst these quiet, moonlit flowers struck Mr. Quayle as terribly, viscerally wrong in ways he could not quite put into words.

She was an arresting figure, though—flamboyant yet calculated—in her black satin dress, fashionably coiffed hair, and lips the color of blood. On closer inspection, she was older than she had first appeared. Nearer, perhaps, to Mr. Quayle’s own age than that of Lord Unsworth’s niece or nephew.

Her face was elaborately made-up, obscured beneath layers of paints and powders that could not quite hide the swelling bruises. Streaks of mascara ran down her cheeks, giving her a gaunt, haggard look that had clearly not been part of the plan.

Mr. Quayle knew very little about cosmetics or couture, but he recognized craft when he saw it, and everything about her had obviously been deliberately designed to make an impression—but for what purpose? And on whom?

Whoever she was, though, she had not been at the party; Mr. Quayle had no doubts on that score. And that meant she was a stranger—an uninvited guest. She must have snuck in somehow, but what had brought her here of all places? To this distant corner of the garden, far from the beaten track and the lights and music of the party?

Mr. Quayle shook his head at the direction his thoughts had taken him. None of this was rightly his concern. He was a secretary, not a policeman. But there would be dark days ahead for the family because of this. Blood had been spilled in the Unsworths’ garden, and even if they proved utterly innocent, suspicion alone could cast a long shadow. Few knew that better than Quayle, and despite himself, he couldn’t help but feel some small sense of responsibility. Besides, he had always found it difficult to resist a mystery.

A lover of puzzles from a young age, Mr. Quayle had devoured Sherlock Holmes and Arsène Lupin as a child and had even briefly dreamed of becoming a detective. His mother had soon put a stop to that, however. Not a suitable pursuit for a proper young gentleman.

Mrs. Quayle had cherished loftier ambitions for her son, and he had fulfilled them in the end, although he had taken a long, circuitous, sometimes tragic route to get there.

A sudden commotion stirred him from his thoughts, and he turned—His Lordship had arrived.

I’m glad you’ve come, Lord Unsworth. Mr. Quayle rose slowly, careful not to disturb the body. I took the liberty of dispatching some of the footmen to keep the other guests at bay. I assumed you would prefer to avoid undue panic for as long as possible.

Lord Unsworth agreed wholeheartedly. They will have to be told, of course, he added begrudgingly. I suppose there is no escaping that, but I would much rather know what we are dealing with first.

My thoughts exactly.

Commendable as ever, Mr. Quayle. Lord Unsworth nodded sharply. I knew I could rely on you.

There was a considering glint in His Lordship’s eyes which made Mr. Quayle slightly uneasy. He had only been in Lord Unsworth’s service for a matter of months, but in that time, he had already made a diligent study of his new employer’s quirks and gestures, so similar—so hauntingly similar—to the late Colonel Theodore Statham.

Lord Unsworth often struck casual observers as distracted, absent-minded even—a harmless, avuncular figure given to kindly smiles and wry laughter—but Mr. Quayle knew better. Like father like son, and there was nothing distracted or avuncular about Lord Unsworth now. Erect and proper, he seemed firmly in command of himself despite the worry lurking ominously behind his unusually taciturn expression.

I was given to understand that the young woman had been murdered…

Stabbed, Lord Unsworth.

I see. If possible, His Lordship’s expression grew even more grave, his lips pressed tightly in a thin, morose line. That’s the trouble these days: no one has the common decency to be stabbed in their own gardens anymore. She was one of the guests, I presume?

Mr. Quayle hesitated. Well—

Yes?

Personally, Lord Unsworth, I am prepared to swear that I did not see her enter the party. However, it is always possible that she slipped in with one of the other guests.

Hmm. Lord Unsworth gave him a long, searching look. But you don’t believe that, do you?

No, Lord Unsworth, I don’t. I was at the door when the guests arrived, and I checked them off one by one as they entered. He sighed. Although, we can hardly expect the police to take my word for it.

"Perhaps not, but I trust your word, Quayle. If you say she wasn’t one of the guests, then I believe you."

That’s very kind of you, Lord Unsworth, but if you don’t mind, I would prefer it if you had a look for yourself. As much as I would like to claim otherwise, I am hardly infallible, and you are obviously more familiar with your family than I am.

Am I? I wouldn’t be too sure about that, Lord Unsworth said. I hadn’t seen most of these people in decades.

But he leaned over, nonetheless, and peered down at the body while Mr. Quayle obligingly held the torch closer.

Lord Unsworth’s face, already grim and foreboding, barely flinched as he took in the grisly sight. The only sign was a slight tightening around the eyes, visible only on close examination.

So young, was all he said. They’re always so young. It was a mournful, melancholy whisper that left no doubt about the shape and tenor of his thoughts.

And then, without another word, Lord Unsworth reached out his hand to close the young woman’s staring, sightless eyes. Mr. Quayle opened his mouth to protest but thought better of it. Whoever she was, the poor woman deserved what little dignity they could offer, and if the police objected, then so be it.

Do you recognize her? he asked instead.

No. I thought for a moment but—

Lord Unsworth?

Never mind. Lord Unsworth shook his head. It was only a trick of the light, a shadow from the past, nothing more.

If you’re certain…

I am. If Lord Unsworth had any lingering doubts, then they were well concealed. I have never seen this young woman before in my life.

Mr. Quayle nodded, unsurprised. Fanny said much the same.

Lord Unsworth rounded on him suddenly. Fanny? She’s seen the body?

Mr. Quayle blinked in confusion. I’m terribly sorry, Lord Unsworth. I thought Perkins had told you—

Told me what?

Mr. Quayle cleared his throat. I’m afraid, Lord Unsworth, that it was Fanny who discovered the body.

My God! Is she all right?

Mr. Quayle held out his hand to stop the stream of questions. A little shaken, Lord Unsworth, but unharmed. She wanted to wait for you, but I eventually convinced her to return to the house. Major Eatwell is with her, and I sent word for her maid to join them—somewhere out of sight, of course, away from prying eyes.

Thank goodness for that, but you’re sure she’s all right?

She struck me as being remarkably brave, all things considered, Mr. Quayle replied truthfully. And the Major was very solicitous.

Eatwell? Yes, I’m sure he was, Lord Unsworth muttered darkly. Well, Mr. Quayle, you seem to have thought of everything.

"Hardly everything, but it is kind of you to say so, Your Lordship. I’ve done what I could in the circumstances, but word is bound to get out sooner or later. Certainly, once the police arrive—"

Yes, the police… Lord Unsworth scowled. "This is a nightmare, Quayle. An absolute nightmare! It was bad enough having all those guests meandering throughout the house—and they’re family—but the police? I can see them now: trampling through my gardens, running their hands over my books, and asking questions, of course. So many questions!"

"I’m afraid that is their job, Lord Unsworth."

Yes, of course, but— He sighed. I would feel much better if someone I trusted was there to, shall we say, keep an eye on them.

Lord Unsworth shot him a sidelong glance, but Mr. Quayle was—amongst other things—an accomplished bridge and poker player, and his face gave nothing away. He knew exactly who Lord Unsworth had in mind, of course, but all things considered, he thought it best not to presume—or worse, to volunteer.

Please understand, it’s not that I don’t trust the police, Lord Unsworth continued, once it became clear that Mr. Quayle had no intention of saying anything. I’m sure they’re perfectly competent—in fact, the Chief Constable is a close acquaintance of mine—but they’re not one of us, and there are some matters which I believe are best kept within the family.

Mr. Quayle said nothing, but Lord Unsworth had his full and undivided attention.

I realize that what I am asking of you, Quayle, is well outside the normal scope of your duties, so I wish to make it abundantly clear that this is a request, not an order.

"And what, precisely, are you requesting?" Mr. Quayle asked, breaking his silence at last.

"I would like you to conduct your own investigation on the family’s behalf—that is to say on my behalf—and, perhaps more importantly, do what you can to mitigate any potential scandal."

I see.

4

MR. QUAYLE’S NEW DUTIES

And there it was—a poisoned chalice filled to the brim with a strange brew of expectations and confidence, of loyalty and trust. Mr. Quayle knew that he owed Lord Unsworth and his family a debt—one which Quayle could never truly repay—but this was something else entirely.

I do not wish to appear ungrateful, Mr. Quayle said cautiously. You have been very generous to me, Lord Unsworth, and I am flattered by your faith in my abilities, but I have only been here a few months, and I have absolutely no experience in these matters. I’m a secretary, not a detective.

Lord Unsworth brushed his concerns aside. "You may have only recently entered my service, Quayle, but