A Death in Devon Read online

  “Oh, you can’t take him back to America. The will stipulates that he is to stay here, in England, in his home. You must live in the cottage in Devon.”

  “B-but I can’t stay here,” I said, genuinely shocked.

  “Why not?” Mr. Woodward asked. “You don’t have a job, do you?”

  “Well, no,” I admitted.

  “Then I don’t see the problem. Mr. Chambers here,” he waved to the younger man, “is tasked with checking up on you and Tippy periodically to ensure all is going well.”

  “To spy on me, you mean,” I said dryly.

  Mr. Woodward gave me a pained smile. “As you like.”

  “But I have family back home,” I protested. Surely he saw that my staying in England was impossible.

  “You will be allowed short visits home, and of course they can visit you here.” As if that wasn’t incredibly expensive.

  Still, the idea of living in England, for a while at least, was tempting. Hadn’t I always wanted an adventure?

  I sighed. “Surely there must be some legal process to stay here.”

  “That’s taken care of,” Mr. Woodward assured me. “We will have your visa well in hand before your train leaves for Devon.”

  Oh, boy. “And when is that?”

  “End of the week,” he said. “It’s already covered, so you needn’t worry.”

  “And what about money? You said there was a monthly stipend.”

  He looked a little embarrassed. “Yes, for Tippy and the house. It will cover the necessaries such as food for Tippy, property taxes, electrical, water, all the basics. It will not cover food for yourself or any other of life’s necessities.”

  I stared at him, jaw dropped. “So this... woman drags me over here, foists her dog on me, and then expects me to do what exactly?”

  “Get a job,” Mr. Chambers said dryly.

  That got me steamed. “Are you insinuating I’m lazy?”

  Mr. Woodward shot him a look. “I’m given to understand you were having difficulty finding a job in the States.”

  “I’m not sure how that is any business of yours, or how you knew about it, but yes, I was,” I admitted. “If I were to stay in London, perhaps I could find something, but Devon? Is there a need for secretaries out there?”

  “Is that your chosen career?” Mr. Woodward asked.

  I frowned. “It’s the only one available to women now that the war is over. Although I admit I’m not very good at it.”

  “Is that what happened at your last position?” Mr. Woodward asked.

  “Ah, no. I was fired, but not for being bad at my job.”

  He lifted a brow.

  “One of the male employees pinched my bottom one day. I slugged him in the kisser. I got fired.” I shrugged. It was an unfortunate fact of life that women were harassed at their workplaces every day. We were just supposed to accept it. Unfortunately, I wasn’t the accepting kind.

  “And what did you do during the war?” he asked. “Perhaps you could do that.”

  “Welder. At the shipyards. We built warships, and I was good at it,” I said proudly. “But they don’t want women welders anymore.”

  “A pity,” Mr. Woodward said, “however I believe I am in need of your services.”

  “Me?” I stared at him in astonishment. “But surely you know I’m a terrible secretary and besides, I can’t stay here in London. You said so yourself. I have to live in Devon.” I shot Tippy a dirty look. He promptly shot me one back. “Besides, you’d be much better off with someone else.” Even if I really did need the job.

  He gave me a long look. “One day, remind me to tell you about a marvelous, madcap woman I once met not long after the Great War. Maybe then you’ll understand why I’ve no doubt you’re up to the task. You see, I don’t need your services as a secretary. I need your services as a spy.”

  “THIS IS LUDICROUS,” I said, posing in front of the gold-framed mirror and feeling absolutely ridiculous about it. Why had I agreed to this? Oh, yes, I needed a job.

  “I think it looks rather nice,” Mr. Chambers said, eyeballing my figure in a neat blue-and-white polka dot dress that fit snugly in the bosom before flaring out into a swirly skirt.

  I shot him a glare. “I’m not talking about the dress, Mr. Chambers.”

  “I told you to call me Jack, Euphegenia.”

  “Only if you stop using that horrid name and call me Sugar.”

  “And you think Euphegenia is ridiculous,” he muttered.

  “What’s that?” I arched a brow, hands on hips.

  “Nothing.” He stretched his legs and turned to the salesgirl. “We’ll take that one. The red evening dress and the other day dresses. Do you have a trench? Perhaps something in pink.”

  “Jack,” I snapped, “don’t you agree this entire plan is ludicrous?”

  “And yet you agreed to it.”

  “I didn’t exactly have a choice.” I marched into the dressing room to divest myself of the polka dot dress.

  “You always have a choice,” Jack called after me.

  I ignored him. Perhaps he was right, but what choice did I have? It was either become a spy for Mr. Woodward’s little investigation or ask my parents to wire enough money so I could go home. Not an appealing prospect. And so I chose the former.

  It seemed Mr. Woodward had several wealthy clients with manor houses scattered around the country. Over the course of the last few months, many of them had thrown house parties during which they and their guests had been burgled, the thief making off with a fortune in valuables. After studying the pattern of thefts, he had come to the conclusion that the next place to be hit was a house party in Devon—in the very same village where my cottage was located—at the home of his friend and client, Lord Chasterly. He was convinced if he could get someone into the party undercover, that he or she could discover something of interest that might help him solve the case.

  “Why don’t you just call the police?” I’d asked.

  “We have, of course. But the locals are useless, and this is the sort of thing one doesn’t want bandied about.”

  “Well, then, why don’t you go?” It seemed like a perfect solution. He was, after all, the one who’d been asked to investigate.

  “I am well known in those circles. I don’t want to risk the thief not showing up.”

  He’d had a point. I’d mulled it over. “What about Mr. Chambers? He is, after all, your employee.”

  “And my nephew. He is known as well.”

  I hadn’t realized the two were related, though perhaps I should have with those strong jawlines and aristocratic noses. Not to mention the gray-blue eyes.

  “Oh, very well,” I’d agreed, knowing I needed the money. And surely being an undercover detective would be better than being a secretary. “But you’re footing the bill.”

  “Of course. Shouldn’t cost much.”

  I snorted. “That’s what you think. You do realize that I don’t have the wardrobe of an American heiress. I’ll be found out immediately.”

  Which was how I’d ended up at a chic little boutique the very next day, trying on clothes with Mr. Chambers nearby in charge of the purse strings and to approve purchases. It felt oddly intimate to be shopping for clothes with a man. And one who was practically a stranger at that. Even more odd was shopping with a dog. But Tippy took it in stride and lay down under the divan for a nap.

  The hotel people hadn’t even blinked when I brought Tippy back with me. In fact, George had kindly scrounged up some scraps for the dog’s dinner and taken him for a walk this morning.

  “What do you know about this burglary business?” I asked Mr. Chambers—Jack—once he’d purchased a suitable number of outfits right down to the accessories.

  I’d drawn the line at undergarments. For one thing, no one would see them, for another I couldn’t fathom allowing a man to buy me lingerie. My mother would have a fit if she knew.

  Mr. Woodward had suggested a lady’s maid. I was supposed to be an heir
ess after all, but I’d said no. It would make more sense to stick closer to the truth. That I’d grown up without money and only come into it recently. That would cover up any faux pas a true heiress would never make. And such a woman would never bother with a maid. Mr. Woodward had, surprisingly, agreed with me. Probably because he could already see dollar signs swimming down the drain thanks to my new wardrobe.

  “I only know what my uncle told you,” Jack said, holding the door for me. “A number of his clients have been burgled recently. Always when in residence at their country homes, and always during a house party.”

  “Anyone other than your uncle’s clients get robbed?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “It’s been largely kept out of the papers. Why?”

  “Because if it’s only his clients being burgled, then that’s an interesting clue. If others have been, it’s merely a coincidence.”

  “Perhaps that’s something you can ask once you get there.”

  I eyed him. “Perhaps.” What I wanted to say was, “Obviously.” But I bit my tongue. “How about this Lord Somebody I’m going to stay with?”

  “Lord Chastlery was at school with Uncle Jamie. They’ve known each other for years. They cooked up this scheme together.”

  I lifted a brow. “This scheme?”

  “Yes, the house party, the guest list... everything. Even you.”

  That was a surprise. “That’s impossible. How could they have planned for my attendance? Surely the party was planned well in advance.”

  Jack inclined his head. “True. But they were looking for someone to fit the bill. If it wasn’t you then it would have been someone else.”

  “Well, that’s flattering,” I said dryly.

  “Don’t take offense. Uncle has interviewed and rejected at least a dozen girls. He picked you almost instantly.”

  “Because I was desperate, I suppose.”

  “No, because he took a liking to you.” He eyed me. “He doesn’t take a liking to people easily.”

  “I sense that. Fine. I’m off to Devon to play heiress at a house party. I wish you could tell me more about the other burglaries. Or even who’s attending this party. I won’t know a soul.”

  “Maybe it’s better you don’t,” he offered. “In that way, you will have a better chance at an honest first impression. You’ll be seeing these people through fresh eyes instead of those colored by years of acquaintance or friendship.”

  “In other words, I’m less likely to be blind to their faults.”

  I swear he smirked. “Er, yes. Rather.”

  As we exited the shop, I made a beeline for the pharmacy down the street.

  “Where are you going?” he demanded. “We’ve done our shopping.”

  “That’s what you think. You owe me a new compact and some face powder. Now, who am I to report to?”

  “Me. I’ll be arriving in Devon the day after you do. My room is already booked at the local pub. I’ll avoid the house as I could be recognized. When you have something to report, you can visit me in town, and we’ll discuss your findings.”

  “And let me guess,” I said. “You’ll be checking up on this guy.”

  Tippy rolled his eyes up at me as if somehow knowing I was talking about him.

  “Yes, I will. It’s my job, after all.”

  How annoying. I felt like I was being babysat. Still, there wasn’t a thing I could do about it, so I might as well get used to it. Besides, there are worse things that having a handsome man around. Even if his only interest was in my dog.

  Chapter 4

  “Well, Tippy, this may be the strangest adventure I have ever been on.” I stared down at the mutt who lay panting at my feet. I’d been sure they wouldn’t let him on the train, but Mr. Woodward had smoothed the way, much like he did everything else.

  I still couldn’t believe I was headed into the wilds of Devon with a stranger’s dog and a key to a house that wasn’t mine. Even stranger was the fact that, according to anyone who asked, I was an eccentric American heiress headed to a house party at Lord somebody or other’s with the intent to spy for my new employer, Mr. James Woodward.

  Strangest of all, perhaps, was that I now had a trunk filled with lovely clothes befitting such an heiress and more money to my name than I’d ever had at any one time, even when I was working as a welder. Mr. Woodward had opened an account for me and deposited my first paycheck as well as given me a small amount of cash as “walking around money.”

  The countryside flew by the window... green rolling hills dotted with fluffy white spots which could only be lambs, trees laden with fresh blossoms, and little thatched cottages so cute they made your teeth hurt. Eventually the greenery on one side gave way to an amazing view of the sea, almost painfully blue under the surprisingly sunny sky. It had been pouring down rain when I left London.

  “You know, Tippy, this might not turn out so bad after all. Look at that view!”

  Tippy heaved a grunting sigh as if he’d seen it all before. Maybe he had. Aunt Eupheginia’s house was, after all, in Devon. He may well have taken this train before. Although based on his short legs, I doubt he’d seen much.

  My stomach rumbled, and I pulled a cheese sandwich which I’d purchased at the station from my purse and unwrapped the waxed paper. I could have bought food on the train, but it seemed a waste of money. I wasn’t even sitting in First Class. I was clear back in Third. I’d worried someone would notice, but Mr. Woodward assured me that the chauffeur who was to take me to the Endmere, Lord Whatsisname’s manor, would meet me outside the station so he wouldn’t notice which car I got out of. Mr. Woodward may have sprung for a new wardrobe, but he wasn’t about to waste money on a First-Class ticket. In that, I suppose, we were of one mind.

  I had, however, circumnavigated his plans somewhat. I’d caught an earlier train which would put me into the village of Meres Reach two hours before the chauffeur was meant to collect me at the station. I figured that would give me time to check out my new digs and drop off a few things I didn’t necessarily want the other guests to see. Like my woefully inadequate American wardrobe.

  I munched happily on my sandwich. It was quite a bit different than the cheese sandwiches I was used to back home. Mama frequently made them for lunches when I was a child since they were cheap and easy. Butter the bread, slap on cheese, done. If one was feeling fancy, one might fry them up on the stovetop.

  The British cheese sandwich was a different kind of animal. Yes, there was bread and yes, there was cheese, but that was where the similarities ended. The woman at the sandwich counter had claimed the cheese was Cheddar, but it was sharper and more buttery than any Cheddar I’d ever tasted. Not to mention it was white instead of orange. In addition, there was a spread that looked a little bit like relish, except that it was brown and had a sweet, tangy, spicy flavor that went surprisingly well with the cheese.

  Tippy lifted his head and snuffled excitedly, so I fed him a bit. He wolfed it down happily and snuffled again.

  “Enough for you, mister. I’ll let you have my crusts. I’ve never liked them much, though Mama always made me eat them. Waste not, want not.” I chuckled as a memory came to me. “She also said all the good stuff was in the crust. Isn’t that silly? It’s all the same ingredients regardless of where in the loaf it is. It’s not like it’s an apple.”

  Tippy made a sort of muttering sound which I took to mean he agreed with me. As well he should. Maybe we would get along after all.

  “I forgot to ask Mr. Woodward if Lord Something-or-other would mind me bringing you. I hope it’s okay. I would hate to get off on the wrong foot,” I mused.

  Tippy whined as if he were also worried.

  “You’re cute, though, so that’s in your favor.”

  There was a grunt of agreement. I guess he didn’t have a problem with confidence.

  Sandwich finished, I wadded up the wax paper and stuffed it back into my purse to be thrown out later. Then I retrieved a nub of a pencil and a sma
ll notebook which I always kept with me. I’m not sure why, but it seemed like a thing one should do, just in case one had a sudden bout of inspiration. Or needed to add to the shopping list.

  “Let’s see.” I tapped on my lower lip with the pencil. “What’s our first order of business when we get to the manor?”

  Tippy rolled his eyes toward me, then away. He let out a deep, huffing sigh and rested his chin on his outstretched paws.

  “Well, you’re no help. Let me think... I’ll speak to Lord Whoever-he-is. That’s the most important thing, right? He is, after all, the one who hired us.” I jotted that down.

  Tippy ignored me.

  “Next, I need to find out which other houses were robbed and if all the owners were clients of Mr. Woodward or not.”

  I wrote that under the heading of “no. 2.”

  “I should also try and get guest lists from the other house parties. That way I can compare which guests were at which parties. I’m betting it is a guest. Or maybe a servant. How else would they get away without anyone noticing? It’s obvious, don’t you think?”

  Another eye roll from Tippy. So far, he was proving useless as an investigative partner.

  At last the train rolled into the Meres Reach Railway Station.

  “Come along, Tippy,” I said.

  Tippy trotted dutifully behind as I exited the train along with a small crowd of Londoners clearly on vacation with their casual clothes and suitcases. My own suitcases were soon piled on a trolley manned by an ancient denizen who looked like a stiff breeze could blow him over.

  “Moving to Meres Reach?” he asked.

  “Yes.” Tippy barked and I remembered I was under cover. “I mean no. I mean... temporarily. I’ve been invited to a house party.”

  “Lot of that going around.”

  I wasn’t sure what he meant and didn’t have time to ask. “Is there a place I can get a taxi?”

  “Sure, Miss. Right out front. Ain’t nothing fancy like London Town, but Old Tom does his best.”

  I wondered how old Old Tom must be for this wizened man to refer to him that way. Which was why I was stunned to find him a young-ish man of forty-something but with a very old, very bright green truck. After seating me and Tippy up front where we both tried to dodge exposed seat springs, he tossed my luggage—including one body-sized trunk—into the bed like they weighed no more than feathers. Then he jumped into the driver’s seat.