A Stab in the Dark Read online

  A Stab in the Dark

  (Araminta Investigates Book 1)

  Karen Chester

  Murder comes to Missenden Hall...

  Araminta Templeton returns home to the English countryside when her aunt, Lady Winthrop, sends out a plea for help. Facing financial ruin, the impoverished Winthrops are reluctantly opening their ancestral home, Missenden Hall, to the public, with Araminta drafted in as tour guide.

  She’s barely finished the first tour when disaster strikes. A visitor is found in a hidden staircase stabbed to death!

  With the tours on hold, her relatives’ future in jeopardy, and a hostile detective breathing down her neck, Araminta must solve the mystery before a family secret threatens to destroy everything.

  A charming cosy mystery set in an English country village. For readers who like a spot of tea and crumpets with their crime.

  Note: this book is written in UK English.

  Araminta Investigates Mystery Series

  Book 1: A Stab in the Dark

  Book 2: Death by Coconut (coming soon)

  Book 3: Sins of the Past (coming soon)

  Sign up for Karen Chester’s newsletter at www.karenchester.wordpress.com.

  Copyright © 2020 by Karen Chester

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Cover art by Simon Mann

  English manor by Radek Sturgolewski/Shutterstock.com

  Blue sky with clouds by Roman Sigaev/Shutterstock.com

  Table of Contents

  1. Beggars can’t be Choosers

  2. Tuppenny Tourists

  3. Tiffs and Tea

  4. A Gruesome Discovery

  5. The Jolly Fox

  6. Prickles

  7. Casting Nasturtiums

  8. Chief Inspector Clegg

  9. Argy Bargy

  10. Uncle George

  11. A Mug’s Game

  12. Up to No Good

  13. Alarm Bells

  14. Wild Speculations

  15. Kerfuffle

  16. Piecing the Jigsaw

  17. The Unvarnished Truth

  Also by Karen Chester

  1. Beggars can’t be Choosers

  “NOW, ARAMINTA, I DO hope that’s clear. Start by the main staircase, then proceed upstairs to the gallery, back down to the drawing room, the morning parlour, the Great Hall, and finally the library. Then exit through the front door. And do keep an eye out for any stragglers. It would be so tiresome to catch one of them dawdling in our home.”

  Araminta Templeton eyed her aunt. “You do realise these stragglers are paying eight pounds each just to have a short tour of Missenden Hall.”

  Lady Winthrop pursed her lips and readjusted her cashmere twinset. “How could one forget? It’s all we’ve been able to think about for months.” She let out a sigh and shook her elegantly coiffed silver head. “Oh, how did it all come to this?” She glanced around her as if bewildered to find herself in this predicament.

  To Araminta, the how was obvious, though her aunt wasn’t seeking an answer.

  They were standing in Edwina Winthrop’s private study on the first floor of Missenden Hall, the ancestral home of the Winthrop family. What had started as a modest manor home had grown as the Winthrops’ fortunes rose, culminating in a Georgian mansion of grand proportions. But, as Sir Isaac Newton had once famously observed, what goes up must come down, and the Winthrops’ wealth proved no exception to this rule. Fire, gambling debts, death duties, poor investments, and sheer incompetence had eaten away at the estate, until finally, to stave off financial ruin, it had come to this; Missenden Hall was opening its doors to the public every Tuesday and Thursday between two and five p.m. from June to August. Admission to the gardens was three pounds and free for children under five, while tours of the house, at an additional eight pounds, would be held at two and four o’clock.

  Today was the first open house day, and the strain was showing on Lady Winthrop, her slender hands constantly toying with the strand of pearls around her neck.

  “Ahem, excuse me...” A small, mousey woman cleared her throat and softly approached Araminta. “A few notes for your reference,” she murmured, offering a clipboard with several pages attached. “In case you run out of things to say on the tour.”

  Araminta looked up in surprise. She’d forgotten Isla was in the study too. For decades Isla Mackenzie had worked for Araminta’s uncle and aunt as their secretary, personal assistant, and all-round gofer. Dark-haired and soft-spoken, she possessed the uncanny ability to blend into any background. She had the soft, pale complexion of someone who rarely spent any time outdoors and a penchant for pastel floral dresses and beige cardigans. It was difficult to guess her age, but Araminta suspected the secretary was no older than herself, which was to say she was under forty—just.

  “Oh, thank you, Isla, that’s very thoughtful of you.” Araminta took the clipboard.

  “My pleasure, Mrs Templeton.”

  Araminta felt a sudden pinch in her heart. It had been a while since anyone had called her ‘Mrs Templeton’, and thus reminding her that Mr Templeton was no longer here. She’d never imagined herself getting married, let alone to a police detective, but all her preconceived notions had fallen by the wayside when she and Ian Templeton had met. That meeting, more than a dozen years ago, had transformed her life forever. But Ian was now deceased, forcing her to construct a new life for herself, a task which often felt never-ending.

  Isla retreated to a desk in the corner.

  “It’s jolly good of you to step in at the last minute,” Lady Winthrop said to Araminta as she smoothed down her powder blue cashmere twinset. “I don’t know why I thought I could do it. Of course, I’ve done my share of amateur dramatics in my day. Public speaking holds no terror for me, but this...this is different. I’d feel like I was prostrating myself, talking to tuppeny tourists about the glories of Missenden Hall, most of which will, I’m sure, go straight over their heads. And then having to answer their questions—oh, heaven forbid. Well, it would never do. No, I knew you’d answer my call for help, Araminta. You always were a brick.”

  Armed with years of experience, Araminta successfully kept her face expressionless. Some people would label her aunt a snob, but that wouldn’t tell the complete tale. Yes, Edwina Winthrop thought herself above the general public, but she could also be generous and kind, without making a fuss about it, and was staunchly loyal. Without Edwina and George Winthrop, Araminta’s childhood would’ve been even more wretched than it had been.

  “Anything to help, Aunt Edwina,” Araminta replied.

  “Sorry we had to drag you away from Italy. You seemed to be enjoying yourself.”

  In the two years since Ian had died, Araminta had spent quite a bit of time away from home, most recently in Lake Como where for the past three months she’d managed a friend’s boutique hotel. She had planned to stay there for a while, until her aunt had called. On the phone Edwina had said things like “it was such a bore” and “nothing urgent, my dear”, but Araminta could read between the lines. She had organised a replacement manager for the hotel, packed her bags, and flown back to England, arriving just days ago.

  “The work suited me,” she said, “but it’s good to be back in Cranley.”

  Her aunt nodded distractedly. “And, of course, it’s out of the question that George should conduct any tours. He couldn’t stand the idea, and, to be honest, he’d be hopeless at it.”

  “Where is Uncle Geor
ge?” Araminta asked. “Is he here?”

  “Oh, yes.” Edwina uttered a sigh. “I tried to talk him into spending the day at the golf club, or going for a long walk, but he refused point blank. Even though it would be so much better for him, and me.”

  As if on cue, the door opened, and Araminta’s uncle walked in. George, the sixth Baron Winthrop, had always reminded Araminta of a willow tree, with his lean, stooped figure, his wispy hair and long fingers, and his dry, rustling voice that seldom rose above a solemn octave.

  Today, though, he appeared rather agitated, with his flushed face and irritable gait. As soon as he caught sight of Araminta, he hurried towards her, huffing fretfully.

  “Heigh ho, m’dear! Have you heard? Awful news. Did you tell her?” he asked his wife. Not waiting for a reply, he continued, “We’re about to be invaded. Day-trippers! Rubberneckers! Philistines! I’d take cover if I were you.”

  “Afternoon, Uncle George,” Araminta calmly responded. “Yes, I do know. In fact, I’m going to be the tour guide. First tour starts at two, which is just a few minutes away.”

  George halted, his jaw sagging. “You’re the tour guide?” He looked flabbergasted. “You mean to say you approve of this nonsense?”

  Edwina screwed up her mouth. “Now, George. It’s not nonsense. We’ve been through this too many times already. We have no choice.”

  “We always have a choice,” George growled. He jammed his fists into the pockets of his moth-eaten tweed jacket. The tip of his prominent nose was suspiciously red, Araminta noticed. And not from the aftereffects of a brisk walk, but rather, she suspected, from a close association with a bottle of whisky.

  “Choice?” Edwina rattled her pearls. “All right, George. So which choice would you agree to? Should we sell off what little land we have left? The Harewoods, perhaps?”

  George’s cheeks turned red to match his nose. “You know I’d never part with the Harewoods.”

  “Or perhaps some of the silverware? Most of the really valuable pieces are already gone, but there are still a lot of knick-knacks lying around. Some of it on display in the Great Hall.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous! Sell our silverware? One teaspoon at a time, like vagabonds? Insufferable!”

  “Well, then, we either open our doors to the public, or close them forever.” A muscle twitched in Edwina’s fine-boned jaw. “You agreed to this months ago, George.”

  “I’m already regretting it.”

  “We’ve come too far now,” Edwina said through gritted teeth. “We have to go through with it.”

  Lord Winthrop met her gaze, his face stiff with anger. A few seconds passed. Then, somewhere in the house, a grandfather clock bonged. His shoulders slumped, and his eyes grew watery and distant.

  “If we have to, then we have to. But no good can come of it. Of that, I’m convinced.”

  “IT’LL BE BETTER ONCE this first day is over,” Araminta said to Isla as they descended the main staircase. Araminta had suggested to the secretary that they have a quick run-through of the tour, not only to familiarise herself but also because she thought her aunt would find it easier to placate her uncle if he didn’t have an audience.

  “I suppose,” Isla said on a soft sigh. “I do hope everything goes well. I’ve been working on this for months...not that I’m complaining about the amount of work, no, although it has been relentless—oh dear, I didn’t mean that. Please forget what I just said.”

  “I certainly won’t. I imagine it has been loads of work for you with not much recognition.” Araminta studied the secretary with fresh eyes. “I’m sure you’ve been worked like a donkey, and because you do it without fuss my aunt and uncle take you for granted. So, on their behalf, I’d like to say thank you.”

  A deep flush swept over Isla’s cheeks. “I’m glad to do it. Lord and Lady Winthrop have been so kind to me.”

  Had they? They definitely couldn’t afford to pay Isla more than a pittance, although she did have free accommodation in one of the estate cottages. Plus, it was difficult to imagine someone as meek as Isla thriving in a more cut-throat commercial environment. So perhaps Isla’s lot wasn’t so bad after all.

  “You’ve done a splendid job,” Araminta said as they entered the library.

  The long, rectangular library with its tall windows overlooking the front gardens, had always been a cluttered, dusty area, a place where people dumped their Wellington boots, Mackintoshes, tennis rackets, baskets, and gardening hats. But now all the everyday paraphernalia had been cleared away, allowing the family treasures, dusted and polished, to shine. The books in the original cedar bookshelves were in perfect order, the map table polished, the rosewood chairs by the windows inviting.

  “I used to spend hours here when I was a girl,” Araminta mused. When her parents had divorced while she was still an infant, she’d lived with her mother until her death. After that, her father, unwilling to care for a ten-year-old daughter, had packed her off to boarding school, and to Missenden Hall during the school holidays.

  Araminta quickly perused the first few pages of the notes that Isla had given her.

  “My goodness, you’ve done an excellent job, Isla. You must know more about Missenden Hall and the Winthrops than I do. You should conduct the tour, not me.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t possibly.” Isla looked horrified at the prospect.

  “Why not? You’ve been here for ages, and you’ve spent the last few months preparing the place.”

  “No, oh no, I’d be terrible.”

  “It just takes a bit of practice.”

  Isla took a step backwards, bumping into one of the bookcases. “My mind would go blank in front of all those people. You’d be so much better. You—you’re a natural, if you don’t mind my saying so. It doesn’t faze you in the slightest.”

  “Public speaking? I suppose it doesn’t,” Araminta replied.

  As Isla moved forward, the bookcase she had pressed up against creaked and shifted.

  “Sorry about that,” Isla said as she turned around. “I forgot about the staircase.”

  “Ah, that.”

  Araminta stepped around the secretary, gripped one of the carved acorns that decorated the bookcase, and pushed against it. With a groan, a section of the bookcase swung open to reveal a dark cavity concealed behind the wall. Cold air drifted out and eddied around her legs. She peered into the dusty dimness to make out the steep and narrow steps that led to the floor above. When she was ten, the discovery of a hidden staircase had filled her with excitement and suspense. What ancient secrets did it hold? Treasure chests filled with doubloons? The bleached skeleton of a monk? A doll with one eye missing? But her fevered imagination was all for nothing. The staircase contained nothing more exciting than a few cobwebs; it was just a means for the family to reach their bedrooms from the library without having to use the cold and draughty hallway.

  “The visitors might appreciate this,” Araminta said as she swung the bookcase shut. “Everyone likes a hidden staircase.”

  “Oh, I beg your pardon, but Lady Winthrop was very adamant that they aren’t told about it.”

  “Really? It might be a nice surprise.”

  “Lord Winthrop’s study upstairs; it’s nearby, you see...” Isla twisted her hands.

  Ah, she should have realised. The tour would take in the upstairs gallery but steer clear of her aunt and uncle’s private rooms. Given her uncle’s mood, if she led a tour party past his study, she wouldn’t put it past him to come lurching out and start lecturing them, or worse still, hurl insults at them. That would be a fine way to attract more tourists.

  “You’re right, of course.” Araminta smiled at the flustered secretary. “I won’t breathe a word about the hidden staircase.”

  They exited the library and walked into the Great Hall, the most impressive of all the rooms, which rose the full height of the building. A plump woman with greying hair, laden with a tray of cakes, was scurrying across the chequered tiles.

  “Afternoon, Het
ty,” Araminta greeted the housekeeper. “Those cakes smell delicious. Are they for the tearoom?”

  “That’s right, Miss Araminta. I been baking all morning. Hope they all get eaten, or we’ll have a lot of leftover cake on our hands.”

  “I’m sure your cakes will be eaten up in no time,” Araminta said. “Here, why don’t we give you a hand with those?”

  She took a plate of scones from the tray, handed a Victoria sponge to Isla, and together the three women left the house. Outside, warm June sunshine bathed lush lawns and garden beds filled with roses, peonies, and delphiniums. Amongst the shrubbery a gardener leaned against his spade, taking a deep interest in his mobile phone.

  Hetty made a tutting noise. “Some people don’t know the meaning of a hard day’s work. He should know better. He’s lucky to have a job at all. Beggars can’t be choosers. Oh, blimey! Look, there’re people here already. S’ppose they can’t wait to poke their noses around.”

  It appeared she was right. Several vehicles including a sleek, black BMW coupe were already in the area set aside for visitors parking. Children played on the lawn, while adults loitered in the forecourt. As Araminta, Isla, and Hetty emerged from the house, the waiting visitors perked up and began moving purposefully towards them.

  Isla sucked in a breath. “Oh...” she whispered, the plate beginning to tremble in her hands.

  “No need to panic,” Araminta said, fearing for the Victoria sponge and Hetty’s temper should Isla drop the cake. “Everything will be fine.”

  “Well, I never!” huffed the housekeeper, still glaring at the visitors. “What a cheek!”

  “What’s wrong, Hetty?” Araminta asked.

  “What does he want here? Can’t believe he’s going to waltz into Missenden Hall through the front door. I told you this was a bad idea,” Hetty grumbled at Isla. “Letting riffraff in, just for a few pounds. It’s crazy. Better to give up and hand everything to them Trust people, that’s what I say. This is a very bad idea.”