"A Lady and her Maid Track Down a Murderer in 1918 England"
Reviewed by Katherine Petersen
Posted February 10, 2016
Mystery Historical | Mystery Woman Sleuth
Alyssa Maxwell's MURDER MOST MALICIOUS takes place during
the Christmas holidays after the end of World War I. Phoebe
Renshaw, 19 and the second oldest of the children at
Foxwood
Hall, overhears an argument between her older sister,
Julia,
and Henry Leighton, the Marquess of Allerton to whom Julia
is
expected to become engaged. Julia tells Henry she's not
interested and he tries to blackmail her with a secret he
knows about something that happened over the past summer.
Phoebe is concerned when Henry doesn't appear for breakfast
or lunch, but she isn't truly dismayed until her lady's
maid, Eva Huntford, among others— receives a finger in
her Christmas box from the family. The one difference is
that the finger in Eva's box is wearing Henry's signet
ring.
But the rest of Henry is nowhere to be found. The police interview everyone at the house and examine
footprints in the snow that lead from the servants'
entrance
to the woods and back. A cleaver is found in a servant's
room, and the police arrest George Vernon. But Phoebe and
Eva are certain of his innocence and determined to prove
it. This is the first book of Alyssa Maxwell's I've read,
although she has written the Gilded Age mystery
series,
which
takes place in Newport, a favorite town of hers. MURDER
MOST
MALICIOUS
takes place in 1918 and explores to some degree the
position
of women in society. Phoebe's family wants her to return to
duties according to her station now the war is over, but
Phoebe got a taste of and independence with
her war efforts. Also, she and Eva are friends as well as
lady and maid in this novel which lends credibility to
Maxwell's story. A relationship such as this works in this
time period, but much earlier in history, and it wouldn't
be
acceptable. Maxwell sets the stage well, introducing us to the
household
enough so we get to know people but not so much as to bore
or overwhelm the reader. She also does a nice job of mixing
dialog and description in MURDER MOST MALICIOUS. Numerous
suspects appear including George and Julia, so the reader
is
kept guessing the identity of the culprit until the end.
Some people may figure it out, but I don't spend a ton of
time trying to, so I was appreciably surprised. The author
also does a nice job with the story, dropping hints, but
nothing requires a suspension of disbelief and the whole
tale ties together. No sleuths doing incredibly silly
things
that are unrealistic and make you roll your eyes.
Maxwell also introduces a hint of romance, so I'm
definitely curious to see what comes in the next
installment. I'm a big fan of historical cozy mysteries,
and
Maxwell has written a gem with MURDER MOST MALICIOUS.
SUMMARY
In post–World War I England, Lady Phoebe Renshaw and
her
lady’s maid, Eva Huntford, step outside of their social
roles and put their lives at risk to apprehend a vicious
killer… December 1918: As a difficult year draws to a close,
there
is much to celebrate for nineteen-year-old Phoebe Renshaw
and her three siblings at their beloved family estate of
Foxwood Hall. The dreadful war is finally over; eldest
daughter Julia’s engagement to their houseguest, the
Marquis
of Allerton, appears imminent; and all have gathered to
enjoy peace on earth, good will toward men. But the peace of Foxwood Hall is shattered on the morning
of
Boxing Day, when the Marquis goes missing. Not entirely
missing, however, as macabre evidence of foul play turns
up
in gift boxes given to lady’s maid Eva Huntford and a
handful of others. Having overheard her sister and the
Marquis in a heated exchange the night before, Lady
Phoebe
takes a personal interest in solving the mystery. As the local constable suspects a footman at Foxwood
Hall,
Phoebe and Eva follow the clues to a different
conclusion.
But both young women will need to think outside the box
to
wrap up this case—before a cornered killer lashes out
with
ill will toward them…
Excerpt25 December, 1918“Henry, don’t you dare ignore me!” came a shout from
behind the drawing room doors, a command nearly drowned
out by staccato notes pounded on the grand piano. “Henry!” Stravinsky’s discordant Firebird broke off with a
resounding crescendo. Voices replaced them, one male, one
female, both distinctly taut and decidedly angry. Phoebe
Renshaw came to an uneasy halt. She had thought the rest
of the family and the guests had all gone up to bed.
Across the Grand Hall, light spilled from the dining room
as footmen continued clearing away the remnants of
Christmas dinner. With an indrawn breath she moved closer to the double
pocket doors. “I’m very sorry, Henry, but it isn’t going to happen,”
came calmer, muffled words from inside, spoken by the
feminine voice. A voice that sounded anything but sorry.
Dismissive, disdainful, yes, but certainly not contrite.
Phoebe sighed and rolled her eyes. As much as she had
expected this, she shook her head at the fact that Julia
had chosen Christmas night to break this news to her
latest suitor. And this particular Christmas, too—the
first peacetime holiday in nearly five years. A paragon of tact and goodwill, that sister of hers. “We are practically engaged, Julia. Why do you think your
grandparents asked my family to spend Christmas at here
at Foxwood? Everyone is expecting us to wed. Our estates
practically border each other.” Incredulity lent an
almost shrill quality to Henry’s voice. “How could our
union be any more perfect?” “It isn’t perfect to me,” came the cool reply. “No? How on earth do you think you’ll avoid a scandal if
you break it off now?” Phoebe could almost see her sister’s cavalier shrug. “A
broken not-quite-engagement is hardly fodder for scandal.
I’m sorry—how many times must I say it? This is my
decision and you’ve no choice but to accept it.” Would they exit the drawing room now? Phoebe stepped
backward intending to flee, perhaps dart behind the
Christmas tree that dominated the center of the hall.
Henry’s voice, raised and freshly charged with ire, held
her in place. “Do I? Do I really? You listen here, Julia
Renshaw. Surely you don’t believe you’re the only one who
knows a secret about someone.” Phoebe glanced over her shoulder and sure enough, two
footmen met her gaze through the dining room doorway
before hurrying on with their chores. Inside the drawing
room, a burst of snide laughter from Henry raised the
hair at her nape. “What secret?” her sister asked after a moment’s
hesitation. “Your secret,” Henry Leighton, Marquess of Allerton, the
man Phoebe’s grandparents had indeed invited to Foxwood
in hopes of a subsequent engagement, said with a mean
hiss that carried through the door. “What...do you believe you know?” “Must I outline the sordid details of your little
adventure last summer?” “How on earth did you discover...?” Julia’s voice faded. It registered in Phoebe’s mind that her sister hadn’t
bothered to deny whatever it was. “Let’s just say I kept an eye on you while I was on
furlough,” Henry said, “and you aren’t as clever as you
think you are, not by half.” “That was most ungentlemanly of you, Henry.” “You had your chance to spend more time with me then,
Julia, and you chose not to. I, therefore, chose to
discover where you were spending your time.” “Oh! How unworthy, even of you, Henry. Still, it would be
your word against mine, and whom do you think Grampapa
will believe? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to
bed.” “You are not walking away from this, Julia!” Henry’s
voice next plunged to a murmur Phoebe could no longer
make out, but like a mongrel’s growl it showered her arms
with goose bumps. The sounds of shuffling feet was followed by a sharp
“Oh!” from Julia. Phoebe’s hand shot instinctively toward
the recessed finger pull on one of the doors, but she
froze at the marquess’s next words. “This is how it is
going to be, my dear. You and I are going to announce our
engagement to our families tomorrow morning, and shortly
after to the world. There will be parties and planning
and yes, there will be a wedding. You will marry me, or
you’ll marry no one. Ever. I’ll see to that.” “You don’t even know whether or not anything untoward
happened last summer,” Julia said with all the
condescension Phoebe knew she was capable of, yet with a
brittle quality that threatened her tenuous composure.
“You’re bluffing, Henry.” “Am I? Are you willing to risk it?” Phoebe’s breath caught in her throat at the sounds of
shuffling footsteps. She gripped the bronze finger pulls
just as Julia cried out. “Let go of me!” Phoebe thrust both doors wide, perfectly framing the
scene inside. Julia, in her pale rose gown with its
silver-beaded trim, stood with her back bowed in an
obvious attempt to pull free of Henry’s hold. A spiraling
lock of blonde hair had slipped from its pins to stream
past her shoulder. Henry’s dark hair stood on end no
doubt from raking his fingers through it. His brown eyes
smoldering and his cheeks ruddy with drink, he had his
hands on her—on her! His fingers were wrapped so tightly
around Julia’s upper arms they were sure to leave
bruises. For a moment no one moved. Phoebe stared. They stared
back. Henry’s tailcoat and waistcoat were unbuttoned with
all the familiarity of a husband in his own home, his
garnet shirt studs gleaming like drops of blood upon
snow. Anger twisted his features. But then recognition
dawned—of Phoebe, of the impropriety of the scene she had
walked in on—and a measure of the ire smoothed from his
features. He released Julia as though she were made of
hot coals, turned away, and put several feet between
them. Phoebe steeled herself with a breath and forced a smile.
“Oh, hullo there, you two. Sorry to barge in like this. I
thought everyone had gone to bed. Don’t mind me, I only
came for a book, one I couldn’t find it in the library.
Julia, do you remember where Grampapa stashed that
American novel he didn’t want Grams to know he was
reading? You know, the one about the boy floating up that
large river to help his African friend.” “I don’t know...” Julia looked from Phoebe to Henry and
back again. She brushed that errant lock behind her ear
and then hugged her arms around her middle. “I’ll help
you look. G-good night, Henry.” “Oh, were you just going up?” Without letting her smile
slip, Phoebe shot a glare at Henry and put emphasis on
going up. A muscle bounced in the hard line of his jaw. His eyes
narrowed, but he bobbed his head. “Good night, ladies.
Julia, we’ll talk more in the morning.” He strode past Phoebe without a glance. Several long
seconds later his footfalls thudded on the carpeted
stairs. Phoebe let go a breath of relief. She turned to
slide the pocket doors closed, and as she did so several
figures lingering in the dining room doorway scurried out
of sight. There would be gossip below stairs come morning. Phoebe
would worry about that later. She went to her sister and
clasped her hands. “Are you all right?” Julia whisked free and backed up a stride. “Of course I’m
all right.” “You didn’t look all right when I came in. You still
don’t. What was that about?” Julia twitched her eyebrows and turned slightly away,
showing Phoebe her shoulder. Yes, the light pink weal
visible against her pale upper arm confirmed tomorrow’s
bruises. “What was what about?” “Don’t play coy with me. What was Henry talking about?
What secret—” “Were you listening at the door?” “I could hear you from the middle of the hall, and I
think the servants in the dining room heard you as well.
Lucky for you Grams and Grampapa retired half an hour
ago. Or perhaps it isn’t lucky. Perhaps this is something
they should know about.” “They don’t need to know anything.” “Why are you always so stubborn?” “I’m done in, Phoebe. I’m going to bed.” Her perfectly-
sloping nose in the air, she started to move past Phoebe,
but Phoebe reached out and caught her wrist. Julia
stopped, still facing the paneled walnut doors, her gaze
boring into them. “Release me at once.” “Not until you tell me what you and Henry were arguing
about. I mean besides your breaking off your would-be
engagement. That comes as no great surprise. But the
rest... Are you in some sort of trouble?” Julia snapped her head around to pin Phoebe with eyes so
deeply blue as to appear black. Her forearm tightened
beneath Phoebe’s fingers. “It is none of your business
and I’ll thank you to mind your own. Now let me go. I’m
going to bed and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll
do the same.” Stunned, her throat stinging from the rebuke, Phoebe let
her hand fall away. She watched Julia go, the beaded
train of her gown whooshing over the floor like the water
over rocks. “I care about you,” Phoebe said in a barely audible
whisper, something neither Julia, nor the footmen, nor
anyone else in the house could possibly hear. She wished
she could say it louder, say it directly to her prideful
sister’s beautiful face. And then what—be met with the
same disdain Julia had just shown her? No. Phoebe had her
pride, too. Eva Huntford made her way past main kitchen and into
servants’ dining hall with a gown slung over each arm.
Lady Amelia had spilled a spoonful of trifle down the
front of her green velvet at dinner last night, while
Lady Julia’s pink and silver beaded gown sported an odd
rent near the left shoulder strap. Eva briefly wondered
what holiday activities could possibly result in such a
tear, then dismissed the thought. Today was Boxing Day,
but she had work to do before enjoying her own brief
holiday later that afternoon. “Mrs. Ellison, have you any bicarbonate of soda on hand?
Lady Amelia spilled trifle—oh!” A man sat at the far end
of the rectangular oak table, reading a newspaper and
enjoying a cup of coffee. She draped the gowns over the
back of a chair. “Good morning, Mr. Hensley. You’re up
early.” “Evie, won’t you call me Nick? How long have we known
each other, after all?” It was true, she and Nicolas Hensley had known each other
as children, but they were adults now, she lady’s maid to
the Earl of Wroxly’s three granddaughters, and he valet
to their houseguest, the Marquess of Allerton. Propriety
was, after all, of the utmost importance in a manor such
as Foxwood Hall. Familiarity between herself and a
manservant wouldn’t be at all proper. “A long time, yes,
but it’s also been a long time since we’ve seen each
other.” He smiled faintly “I saw you yesterday. And the day
before that.” “True, but only surrounded by others, or when passing
each other in the corridors.” She turned to go. “In fact,
I should—” “Oh, Evie, do stay. I’ve craved a moment alone with you.
Don’t look like that. I only wish to...to express my
deepest condolences about Danny. My very deepest, Evie. A
bad business, that.” Her throat squeezed and the backs of her eyes stung.
Danny, her brother... She swallowed. “Yes, thank you. A
good many men did not come home from the war.” “Indeed.” Hang it all, this would never do, not on Boxing Day. In a
couple of hours she would be free to trudge home through
the snow to spend the afternoon with her parents, and
they must not glimpse her sadness. She gave a little
sniff, a slight toss of her head. There. She smiled at
Mr. Hensley. “Tell me, what are you doing down here at
this time of the morning? Won’t his lordship be abed for
hours yet?” “Already up and out, actually.” “On such a cold morning?” Shivering, she glanced up at
the high windows, frosted over and sprinkled with last
night’s light snowfall. Mrs. Ellison turned the corner into the room, her plump
hand extending Eva’s requested soda, fizzing away in a
measuring cup. She handed Eva a clean rag as well. “Who’s
up and out on this frigid morning?” Eva moved a place setting aside and spread the velvet
gown’s bodice open on the table. She dipped the rag in
the soda. “Lord Allerton, apparently.” She looked
quizzically over at Mr. Hensley. He set down his newspaper. “At any rate, his lordship
isn’t in his room. I inquired with the staff setting up
in the morning room and no one’s yet seen him today.” “One supposes he’s gone out for a walk despite the
weather, then.” Eva dabbed the dampened cloth lightly at
the stain on Lady Amelia’s bodice, careful of the
embroidery and the tiny seed pearl buttons. “Or perhaps a ride in that lovely motorcar of his?” Mrs.
Ellison suggested with a sigh. “No, I called down to the motor shed and his Silver Ghost
is still there.” Mr. Hensley frowned in thought, a
gesture that did not diminish his distinguished good
looks. He was several years older than Eva and had
briefly courted her sister before entering into service
as an under footman right here at Foxwood. The years had
been more than kind to him, she couldn’t help admitting.
The slightest touch of silver at his temples might be
premature for a man of thirty, but on Nick Hensley the
effect was both elegant and charming. Perhaps more so
than a valet needed, she added with a silent chuckle. “Oh, wouldn’t I relish a ride in that heavenly motorcar!”
Mrs. Ellison took on a dreamy expression. “Ah well, back
to work.” “I’m sure he’ll turn up. Good morning, Vernon, Douglas.”
Eva greeted the two footmen, along with other staff
members arriving for breakfast after finishing their
morning chores of laying fires, sweeping floors, and
setting up the breakfast buffet. An instant later Connie,
the new house maid, skidded to a halt in the corridor
and, with a visible effort to catch her breath, came into
the room. “Good morning, Connie. Everything all right?” The girl scanned the room with large, worried eyes. “Did
Mrs. Sanders notice my late start this morning?” “Were you late? Well, no matter,” Eva assured her. She
hoped she was correct, and that Connie wouldn’t be facing
a scolding later from Mrs. Sanders. “It’s Boxing Day and
I suppose we’re allowed a bit of leeway. Is everyone
ready for their holiday later?” Boxing Day, the day after Christmas, was a rare treat for
the manor staff. Eva planned to spend the afternoon at
her parents’ farm outside the village, but first she
needed to set her ladyships’ gowns to rights. After a
final inspection of the now nearly-invisible stain, she
moved Amelia’s velvet off the table to make way as more
staff gathered round. She was just on her way to deliver the gown to Mable, the
laundress, before settling in with needle and thread to
mend the beaded strap on Lady Julia’s frock, when Lady
Amelia came bounding down the back staircase and launched
herself from the bottom step. She landed with an
unladylike thwack mere inches away from Eva. “Good heavens, my lady!” Eva sidestepped in time to avoid
being knocked off her feet and spilling her burdens to
the floor. She hugged the gowns to her. “Is there a
fire?” “Oh, I’m terribly sorry, Eva. I didn’t mean to give you a
fright.” Lady Amelia’s long curls danced loose down her
back, and in her haste to dress herself she’d left the
sleeves on her crepe de chine shirtwaist undone. “I was
looking for you.” “You know I would have been upstairs to help you and your
sisters dress in what?” She glanced at the wall clock.
“Twenty minutes.” Amelia Renshaw’s sweet face banished any annoyance Eva
might have felt. At fifteen she was a budding beauty. Not
Lady Julia’s glamorous, moving picture star beauty but a
quieter, deeper sort that one often finds in country
villages like Little Barlow. Her hair was darker than
Julia’s but still golden, a color reflected in her eyes,
which sometimes shone hazel and other times brown, but
always with those bright gold rims. If Phoebe took after
their dear but somewhat plain mother and Julia took after
their dashing father, Amelia had inherited a pleasing
combination of both that would surely endure throughout
her lifetime. “If you’re worried about your frock, my lady, look.” Eva
held out the gowns, using one hand to unfold the bodice
of Amelia’s green velvet. “I’ve almost got the stain out
and Mable will vanquish what’s left.” “Oh, I don’t care about that,” Amelia said with a
dismissive wave. “You keep the gown. I wanted a private
moment to wish you happy Christmas.” “Lady Amelia, where would I ever wear such a garment? And
as for Christmas, you wished me happy yesterday.”
Slinging both gowns over her shoulder she reached to
button up the girl’s wide cuffs. “Had you forgotten?” “Yes, but yesterday was a work day for you and this
afternoon you’ll be free to enjoy as you like.” She
switched arms so Eva could button the other sleeve. “I
may wish you happy from one carefree person to another.
That’s quite different, don’t you think?” Puzzled, Eva frowned at her young charge, but only for an
instant. “I think it’s a lovely gesture and I thank you
very much, my lady.” “There’s more. I wanted you to know there’s a special
surprise in your box from Phoebe and me. Oh, there’s
something from Julia, too, something she purchased, very
lovely and thoughtful, but Phoebe and I made our gift
ourselves. But you’re not to open your box until you’re
at home with your parents.” Amelia bounced on the balls
of her feet with excitement. “We made one for your mother
as well.” “How sweet of you. But you’re very mysterious, aren’t
you?” Eva reached out and affectionately tucked a few
stray hairs behind Amelia’s ear. In some ways she was
blossoming into a gracious young lady, while in others
she was still very much a little girl. One with sadly too
few memories of her mother. Poor child, one parent lost
to childbirth—along with the babe—and the other to war.
Eva hoped she helped fill the gaps, on occasion at least,
even if only in the smallest ways. “Whatever it is, Mum
and I are sure to love and treasure it always. Happy
Christmas to you, my lady.” To her mingled chagrin and delight, Lady Amelia reached
her arms around her and squeezed. “With this deplorable weather keeping us inside, we’ll
have to use our imaginations to keep ourselves occupied
this afternoon.” Maude Renshaw, Countess of Wroxly—Grams as Phoebe and her
siblings called her—stood as tall as she had as a young
woman, if the photographs were any indication. If
anything she seemed even taller now, although Phoebe knew
that to be an illusion created by her predilection to
always wear uninterrupted black, from the high-necked
collars of her dresses to the narrow sweep of her skirts.
With smooth hair the color of newly polished silver worn
in a padded upsweep culminating in a topknot at her
crown, Grams was a study in dignified elegance that
caught the eye and held it whenever she entered a room. Strengthening the illusion of Grams’s Amazonian height,
Phoebe’s youngest sibling, Viscount Foxwood—Fox—walked at
Grams’s side, her hand in the crook of his elbow. Fox had
yet to enjoy a major growth spurt, much to his chagrin as
this set him a good head shorter than many of his
classmates at Eton. Together they led the small
procession of family and guests into the Petite Salon,
tucked into the turret of what had been the original
house. This room was one of Phoebe’s favorites. It’s creamy
paneled walls offset by bright white wainscoting and an
airy cove ceiling made a welcome contrast to the dark
oaks and mahoganies in other parts of the house, while
rich colors of scarlet, blue, and gold, and the rotunda
of windows overlooking the south corner of the gardens,
lent warmth and a cozy touch. An enthusiastic blaze danced behind the fireplace screen,
and Mr. Giles and the footmen, Vernon and Douglas, stood
at attention, waiting to serve. The table had been laid
with leftovers from last night’s dinner—roast goose and
venison and beef, with Mrs. Ellison’s savory apple-
chestnut stuffing, among other delicacies, and for
dessert, the leftover bread pudding and cranberry trifle.
Phoebe hoped Amelia could manage to reserve all remnants
of trifle for her mouth today and not her attire. At any
rate, it was all easy fare designed to allow the kitchen
staff, along with the rest of the servants, to finish up
early and set out on their afternoon holiday. The day
promised adventures for everyone—for the servants as they
pursued their personal interests, and, Phoebe thought
wryly, for the family and guests as they endeavored to
look after themselves for these next several hours. “Where is my son? It’s not like Henry to be late to a
meal.” Lucille, Marchioness of Allerton, regarded her
son’s vacant seat at the table. It was no secret that
Lady Allerton doted to extremes on her elder son—and
always had. Phoebe regarded the marchioness. Where
Grams’s stoic self-discipline had sculpted her figure
into lines of angular elegance, a less diligent outlook,
and perhaps a habit of overindulgence, had softened the
Marchioness’s figure, rounded her hips and shoulders and
upper arms, and produced rather more chins than a body
needed. “He and Lord Owen must have gone out,” Grampapa remarked.
He turned his broad face toward Mr. Giles, who perceived
the question without needing to hear the words. “I believe Lord Owen is still in his room, my lord. If
Lord Allerton has gone out, he left no message that I
know of.” Lady Allerton’s frown deepened. “Hmm... That, too, is
most unlike Henry. Did he take his Silver Ghost?” “No, my lady. His motor is still in the shed.”
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