Mrs Lillywhite Investigates Box Set Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  The Case at Barton Manor

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  The Murder Next Door

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Death On the Isle of Love

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Mrs. Lillywhite Investigates

  Books 1-3

  Emily Queen

  The Case at Barton Manor

  The Murder Next Door

  Death on the Isle of Love

  COPYRIGHT NOTICE

  © 2019 Emily Queen

  All Rights Reserved, worldwide.

  No part of this book or any of its contents may be reproduced, copied, modified or adapted, without the prior written consent of the author, unless otherwise indicated for stand-alone materials.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or institutions is purely coincidental.

  The Case at Barton Manor

  Emily Queen

  Chapter 1

  Rosemary brushed a lock of honey-colored hair out of her eyes and pushed on the corner of the desk with all her might, letting out a harrumph when it refused to budge even an inch.

  “Wadsworth!” she called, straightening the bodice of her dress while soft footsteps descended the stairs. By the time the butler entered the room, she’d set herself back to rights—or, at least, what accounted for rights to Rosemary. According to her mother, she had become far too familiar with her staff.

  “Madam?” Wadsworth bowed slightly towards his mistress, his expression unwavering, but with an effort. “Are you in need of assistance?”

  Rosemary glanced back at the desk and then again at Wadsworth, suddenly uncertain whether the task was beyond a man of his years. “I’ll need a crate for Andrew’s things, and then we’ll discuss the furniture.”

  "Yes, of course, Madam. Right away." He appeared to have an opinion on the subject but wisely kept his thoughts to himself as he strode back out the door, closing it softly behind him. He needn’t have commented anyway, because his expression indicated the direction his thoughts had taken.

  Maybe Wadsworth is right, Rosemary thought. After all, it had been less than a year since her husband, Andrew Lillywhite, had passed, and the shock had yet to dissipate. Each time Rosemary left the townhouse, she was forced to walk past the sign out front reading Lillywhite Investigations, and each time it was a knife to the heart. The street-level office would be better used as an art studio and would carry far fewer memories of Andrew.

  That was precisely why she couldn't make up her mind. Forgetting Andrew himself was not the goal, only leaving behind the pain of his loss. At a mere twenty-five years of age, and still in possession of her youthful beauty, Rosemary was unlikely to remain a widow for long. However, the idea of moving on with her life made the hole in her heart throb miserably. No other man could ever live up to the standard Andrew had set.

  Stalwart and true, Rosemary’s late husband had been a rose among the thorns. He supported the suffrage movement, encouraged Rosemary in any endeavor to which she aspired, and had rarely spoken so much as a harsh word to her. In fact, he’d seen the potential in her artistic ability and bucked tradition by insisting she take part in his work as a private investigator.

  Andrew was a man who appreciated a woman’s unique perspective.

  The hours they’d spent discussing cases—Andrew sprawled on the chaise longue in one corner and Rosemary sketching away at her easel in the other—were some of the happiest memories she had. Those memories were part of why renovating the office presented such a conundrum.

  She circled the room now, seeing ghosts in every corner until her gaze alighted on a large clock placed above the door. The audible click it made with each ticking of the second hand had always irritated Rosemary, and it was the one item in the room she would not be sad to see removed.

  She bit her lower lip and glanced at a ladder-backed chair positioned against the wall adjacent the door. Making up her mind this was the place to begin the transformation, Rosemary pushed the chair against the door, kicked off her patent leather t-strap heels, and gathered her skirt around her knees. With a jerk, she heaved herself onto the chair and reached up towards the casing.

  The tips of her fingers reached only the lower rim of the clock, and it took considerable effort to wrench the piece free of the nail on which it hung. With impeccable timing, Wadsworth attempted to reenter from the other side, knocking the door into the chair and sending Rosemary to the ground with a grunt.

  “Oh, my lady, are you hurt?” Wadsworth exclaimed, his normally pink, chubby cheeks blushing bright red as he reached down to help his mistress. Rosemary’s shoulders shook as she laid the miraculously unbroken clock down upon the carpet.

  "Do you need me to summon Dr. Barrow?" The butler's voice wavered with concern, but then his spine straightened and his eyes narrowed. “Are you laughing, Madam?”

  Rosemary nodded, and after another few moments of silent laughter, she reached out a hand and allowed Wadsworth to raise her from the floor. “I’m perfectly fine, though perhaps a tiny bit hysterical.” Another giggle emerged from between her lips and had Wadsworth’s settling into a thin, unamused line.

  “You could have been injured, my lady. Should you have wanted me to remove that clock, you had only to ask.”

  Had even this mild admonishment come from Rosemary’s mother’s butler, she would waste not a moment before sending him packing, in search of another post. However, since Wadsworth had been more than just a servant in Andrew’s eyes, Rosemary allowed him a certain amount of leniency.

  To hell with what her mother thought, anyway. Rosemary had long since realized they would never see eye-to-eye. Though she
would do nothing that would bring public shame to the Woolridge family, she certainly had no intention of betraying her beliefs in the privacy of her own home.

  "Oh, Wadsworth, stop your grumbling. I'm no worse for the wear. But I would like a cup of tea now if you don't mind. You can thank me later for sparing you the chore of winding that monstrosity."

  “Of course.” He exited, taking a surreptitious look around before doing so as if searching for any other decorative accents upon which his mistress might injure herself.

  While she waited, Rosemary busied herself by drawing a sketch of the office as she envisioned it when completed. The room looked smaller than its actual dimensions due to a folding screen she and Andrew had picked out during a holiday to the Amalfi coast. Folding the offending item and stashing it in a corner allowed for a proper assessment of the room's potential.

  “Needs more light,” she muttered. “Replace the heavy drapes with sheer fabrics.” Yes, with the proper furnishings and decor, the walls would hold enough pieces to justify itself as a proper gallery.

  Calculating the cost of such a makeover, Rosemary jotted a list of the necessary changes. Her nose scrunched as she imagined writing out the number of bills it would take to finance the endeavor. Since there was no one there, she needn’t admit to feeling guilty about the idea of redecorating a room that had been furnished relatively recently and gently used.

  If it means I don’t have to avoid this space, it’s worth it, she thought. The money was not a factor as Andrew had left her with enough to cover her living expenses for the foreseeable future. Even with paying the staff—Wadsworth, her lady’s maid Anna, housekeeper, and cook—Rosemary could live comfortably without using a penny of the stipend her parents had set aside for her. Should she decide to dip into those funds, however, remodeling the office wouldn’t make a dent in the amount.

  Rosemary deeply appreciated being solvent enough to do what she pleased, but would never be one to throw her money around like many of her generation. A penny saved is a penny earned, Andrew had always insisted. To ensure she knew how to take care of herself, he included her when it came time to choose investments or pay bills. The value money was something with which Rosemary was well-acquainted, and she had no intention of wasting any of hers.

  Where is that tea? Rosemary wondered when a sufficient amount of time had passed, and Wadsworth remained absent. She opened the office door and climbed the short set of stairs that led into a covered hallway housing both an exit to the street and an entrance into the house proper. The fervent sound of a woman’s voice lilted towards her, along with the lower register of Wadsworth’s replies.

  “Miss, I do wish I could help you, but you see, Lillywhite Investigations is closed. Permanently.” The word ‘permanently’ sent grief shuddering through Rosemary’s chest, but what affected her more was the intensity of the woman’s cries.

  “Please, let me talk to Mr. Lillywhite. I’m certain we can work out some kind of arrangement,” she begged.

  “Unfortunately Mr. Lillywhite is …” Wadsworth grumbled, reluctant to speak the words neither of them wanted to believe were true.

  “What my butler is trying to say,” Rosemary said, circling around Wadsworth’s back and veritably shoved him aside, “is that my husband, Andrew Lillywhite, is no longer with us. So you see, there’s no Lillywhite Investigations without him.” She kept her tone matter-of-fact while she surveyed the woman standing on the stoop.

  Beneath a fresh application of powder, her nose was red and blotchy, and her eyes were ringed with a touch of kohl that failed to hide that she'd been crying. Aside from that, the woman looked about Rosemary's age and wore a drop waist dress that did nothing to detract from an enviably slim waistline.

  “Apologies, Mrs. Lillywhite, I had no idea. I’m so sorry to have bothered you.” The woman turned and bustled down the stoop, and Rosemary nearly raced to follow before she realized she still wasn’t wearing her shoes.

  “Wait, Miss—” she called. The woman turned and returned to the stoop with an uncertain look upon her face.

  “It’s Barton. Grace Barton.” The name Barton struck Rosemary as vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place it from memory.

  “Hello, Miss Barton. Would you please come in and join me for a cup of tea?” Rosemary gave Wadsworth the side-eye, indicating that not only ought he retrieve the tray but also provide them with some privacy.

  Grace hesitated and then nodded and followed Rosemary into the office. Since his death, Andrew Lillywhite’s widow had refrained from sitting in the chair behind his desk, but with a would-be client in the office, she considered for a moment then chose to simply sit next to Grace on the other side of the desk.

  “Would you like to tell me what has you so upset?” Rosemary asked conversationally.

  For a moment, she wondered if Grace would refuse to confide in her, but eventually, the words tumbled from her lips. "It's my father. I think his life is in danger. I didn’t know where else to turn, so I came here. You see, I met your husband on a train back from Lyon. He gave me his card, which I never imagined I’d have reason to use. He seemed like a good man. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “He was, and thank you.” Rosemary was grateful she hadn’t had to ask Grace how the two had met, and vaguely remembered him telling her about a woman on the train a few weeks prior to his untimely death. Not that she’d suspected anything untoward; Andrew had been a proper gentleman in every way. It was more that meeting someone who had known her husband made her feel closer to him, and yet somehow even further away. The notion that people were walking around with stories about Andrew that she would never hear made her sad—and, at the same time happy, for that meant he lived on in memory.

  Choking back her emotion because this certainly wasn’t the time for it, Rosemary gently prodded Grace until she had the details she needed. Mr. Barton had received a letter—the worst kind of letter—from an unknown source threatening his life. Rosemary was intrigued but unsure how to respond considering the investigative business was closed for good.

  Still, she found herself asking all the important questions just as Andrew would have done.

  “Was there a request for money in the letter?” Blackmail would be a simple solution; it usually was, because the blackmailer often succumbed to greed and gave himself away.

  Grace sighed. "No, that's the odd part. It was just a threat, which is even worse. If they wanted something, Father could just give it to them, and this whole thing would be over. What kind of person does something like this?” she wailed.

  Rosemary pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and passed it to the sobbing woman. "This type of thing happens all too often. Sadly, it is likely to be someone close to him. A business associate, possibly.” Or a family member, Rosemary thought to herself but didn’t say out loud. “Did you happen to bring the letter with you?”

  “No,” Grace said. “I wouldn’t dare remove anything from Father’s desk drawer.”

  “That was probably for the best,” Rosemary agreed, though she wished she had been given a chance to examine the letter. One could tell a lot from analyzing handwriting and, as an artist, the study of loops and whorls was something of a specialty of hers.

  “Whatever shall I do?” Grace asked, the panic fading from her voice. All Rosemary heard now was resignation. “I felt as though coming here was my only hope. Father would either string me alive or cut me off if he were to find out I’ve had gone behind his back like this.”

  That was a sentiment Rosemary could wholeheartedly understand. Some men felt that women were meant to look attractive and keep their mouths shut. Both were feats Rosemary frequently found herself unable to manage. It seemed deferring to her father wasn’t one of Grace’s strengths, either.

  “I shall simply return to Pardington and pray that nothing terrible happens before I gather the nerve to speak to Father,” Grace stated miserably.

  “Pardington? Are you one of the Bartons who lives at Barton Manor?” R
osemary asked, suddenly realizing why she had recognized the name.

  Grace nodded. “Yes, I am.”

  “Well, then the saying about this being a small world has once again proved out. My maiden name is Woolridge,” Rosemary explained.

  The other woman appeared somewhat flummoxed and cast an odd look at Rosemary. “Your family is on the guest list for my parents’ wedding anniversary celebration this weekend. I do not, however, know the status of their RSVP.”

  Several thoughts raced through Rosemary’s mind. The first being she wanted to help Grace, but the second left her with a sense of uncertainty. Her parents had respected Andrew’s line of work grudgingly, the large inheritance he had received from an elderly uncle having softened the blow. They could not understand why a man of means would continue working at all, much less at a job that did not come with a high-level salary. Furthermore, they worried for Andrew’s safety, as investigative work entailed a certain amount of risk.

  Weighing the pros and cons of getting involved even marginally, Rosemary made a quick decision. She had to admit she was intrigued, and it couldn’t hurt to take a quick trip to Pardington and poke around a bit. Should she feel there was a legitimate threat to Mr. Barton’s life, she would advise Grace to alert the police and wash her hands of the whole affair.

  “I’ll help however I can. But remember, I’m not licensed and I can’t get involved in any official capacity.” She found herself making a promise she’d never intended to make, but since she’d given it, she’d uphold it if for nothing more than to honor Andrew’s memory.

  “Thank you, thank you so much.”

  Chapter 2

  Nervous, Rosemary paced back and forth across her bedroom while Anna bustled about, packing a case for the weekend in Pardington. Despite enjoying the soft feel of thick carpet beneath still-bare toes, Rosemary took a seat at the vanity table that matched a set of art deco drawers on the opposite wall. She slid on a pair of thick stockings even though spring had turned the weather from rain and drear to a comfortable warmth that was a promise of the summer heat to come.