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Colleen Cambridge

Murder at Mallowan Hall

A Trace of Poison

Mastering the Art of French Murder

Title Page

A TRACE of POISON

Colleen Cambridge

A PHYLLIDA BRIGHT MYSTERY

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Copyright Page

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

To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018

Copyright © 2022 by Colleen Gleason

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

The K with book logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

Library of Congress Card Catalogue Number: 2022939694

ISBN: 978-1-4967-3247-7

First Kensington Hardcover Edition: November 2022

ISBN: 978-1-4967-3249-1 (ebook)

“I promise that my detectives shall well and truly detect the crimes presented to them, using those wits which it may please me to bestow upon them, and not place reliance on, nor make use of, Divine Revelation, Feminine Intuition, Mumbo Jumbo, Jiggery-Pokery, Coincidence, or Act of God.”

—Oath taken by members of the Detection Club

AUTHOR’S NOTE

AUTHOR’S NOTE

While Agatha Christie and her husband, Max Mallowan, along with the Detection Club, actually existed, the Listleigh Murder Club, Mallowan Hall, Phyllida Bright, and her staff—as well as the deadly incidents described in this book—are purely figments of the author’s imagination.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

CAST OF CHARACTERS

DETECTION CLUB MEMBERS (actual historical figures)

Agatha Christie: celebrated detective story writer; creator of the Hercule Poirot, Miss Marple, and Tommy and Tuppence Beresford stories

G. K. Chesterton: popular crime writer of the Father Brown short stories; president of the Detection Club

Dorothy L. Sayers: famous writer of the Lord Peter Wimsey mystery series

Anthony Berkeley: suave, well-dressed, and upper-class writer of detective novels, including The Poisoned Chocolates Case

LISTLEIGH MURDER CLUB MEMBERS (fictional characters)

Digby Billdop: local vicar for the Church of England; writer of the Father Veritas mystery stories

Alastair Whittlesby: local solicitor, president of the Listleigh Murder Club, and writer of the Inspector Belfast mystery stories

Miss Crowley: a single, drably-dressed woman who writes about the rakish and adventuresome Filberto Fiero

Vera Rollingbroke: a wealthy, well-heeled woman who is rarely without her notebook and who writes stories about an upper-class woman named Bunkle and her crime-solving cat partner, Mrs. Cuddlesworthy

Louis Genevan: antiques dealer who owns a shop in Belgravia and writes mystery stories about a spinster woman

Dr. John Bhatt: Listleigh’s local physician who has begun to create his own crime-solving lab and who writes stories about a detective named Dr. Graceley

MALLOWAN HALL STAFF

Phyllida Bright: housekeeper and amateur detective extraordinaire

Mr. Dobble: Mallowan Hall’s very proper and often intimidating butler

Mrs. Puffley: cook at Mallowan Hall who insists that murder is no excuse for inadequate meals

Bradford: the chauffeur, who has adopted an adorable canine named Myrtle

Molly: first kitchen maid and a favorite of Mrs. Bright’s

OTHER CHARACTERS

Father Tooley: pastor of St. Wendreda’s Catholic Church, at which the Murder Fête is being held to raise money for St. Wendreda’s orphanage’s roof

Rita: maid at St. Wendreda’s rectory

Lettice Whittlesby: wife of Alastair Whittlesby

Eugene Whittlesby: estranged brother of Alastair Whittlesby, who nonetheless lives in the same house

Old Mrs. Whittlesby: mother of Alastair and Eugene; is bedridden and “dragon-like” in her personality

“Rolly” Rollingbroke: Vera Rollingbroke’s doting husband

Drewson: the Whittlesbys’ butler

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 1

Friday morning

“I JUST DON’T SEE ANY WAY AROUND IT. HE’S SIMPLY GOT TO BE DONE away with,” said a hushed voice.

“Right. The problem is . . . how to do it . . .” replied another voice. “Soon . . .”

While anyone else overhearing such an exchange would surely be alarmed, Phyllida Bright merely smiled to herself and went about the business of counting tablecloths for the welcome luncheon at the Listleigh Murder Fête.

Being the housekeeper at the vast and elegant Mallowan Hall, the home of the famous novelist Agatha Christie and her husband, Max Mallowan, Phyllida was quite used to overhearing—and participating in—discussions about murder and the finer points of how to permanently do away with an inconvenient person.

Whether abovestairs or belowstairs, there was always some conversation going on about which poison to use, whether a knife or a gun would be more or less bloody when employed than the other, and if a blow to the head would actually do the deed or whether a spike shoved into the back of the neck would need to be added to complete the task before stuffing the body of a maid into a downstairs cupboard.

“Poison . . .” replied the first person, whose words were becoming less audible. Perhaps they were walking away. “Coffee. Or a drink . . . ?”

“There is . . . that,” replied the other. “. . . his new car, eh?”

Phyllida was fairly certain the first was a man speaking, but it was difficult to be certain as she was inside the social hall at St. Wendreda’s Catholic Church and the voices were coming through an open window. Regardless, surely it was one of the detective fiction writers who were here for the Murder Fête. There were dozens of them milling about—both published and unpublished writers—many hoping to get a glimpse of some of the popular and well-known authors, such as G. K. Chesterton or Dorothy L. Sayers.

“Yes, poison . . . wouldn’t it? . . . something . . . done,” replied the companion, whose sex was indistinguishable due to its hushed tone. “And soon . . . cannot bear his boastful, overbearing nastiness any longer.” These last phrases became stronger and more distinct, clearly indicating the frustration of the speaker, whose voice was low and crusty enough to be either male or female.

Phyllida tsked to herself, wondering how writers could come to dislike characters they’d created. Of course, not being a writer herself, she couldn’t imagine such an occasion.

However, there was a time only recently when Agatha had become weary of and annoyed by her most popular fictional detective, Hercule Poirot. Like Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, whose Sherlock Holmes had so become the bane of his existence that he actually killed off the character—only to be required to revive him in order to silence his fans—Agatha had become fed up with Poirot and his persnickety, bombastic ways.

Fortunately, Agatha hadn’t actually plotted to kill the little Belgian detective—an event that would have prompted Phyllida to have a pointed and impassioned conversation with her employer. For Phyllida had what one might term a literary tendre for the brilliant, mustachioed detective.

Of course, the discussion to which she was currently privy might very well be about a villain rather than a meddlesome crime fiction detective, but she quite doubted it. The tone of voice implied a person very much at the end of their rope in dealing with the individual, which implied someone well-known to the speaker, such as a recurring character.

She hoped it wasn’t Dorothy Sayers speaking about her detective character Peter Wimsey. Not that Lord Peter could hold a candle to Poirot, but Phyllida certainly enjoyed his detective work—and having recently solved a real-life murder herself, she highly approved of the intrepid Harriet Vane as his partner (although she was no comparison to Agatha’s spunky Tuppence Beresford).

“Mrs. Bright, ma’am, the flowers for the tables are here. The vases are on their way.”

Phyllida turned from her stack of tablecloths to speak to Ginny, the first parlourmaid from Mallowan Hall. Presumably, the person standing next to her was Amsi, the gardener from the manor house, but it was impossible to tell for certain as the figure was completely obliterated by the mountains of roses, Michaelmas daisies, and gladioli in the cart he was pushing.

“Excellent. When they arrive, line up the vases on the table there and you may arrange them—five roses, six daisies, and two gladioli for each. Make certain the glads are in the center, mind, and mix the colors,” Phyllida told her, even as she scrutinized the fresh apron and uniform her maid was wearing.

Not one straggle of honey-gold hair escaped Ginny’s cap, and her stockings were sleek and smooth—as they should be. Phyllida had extremely high expectations of her staff at all times, but she was particularly exacting when they were to be interacting with the public.

She turned to the second of the maids she’d brought with her from home. Despite being a kitchen maid and not usually seen by guests or even the family, Molly was just as clean and pressed and starched as Ginny was—and could be counted on not to gossip quite as much. Phyllida mentally nodded approval. “Molly, you can put out the tablecloths—there’s a rectangular one for the head table and the rest are circular—and then help Ginny place the flowers. Directly in the center of the tables, if you please, with three spaced out across the head table.”

Phyllida gestured to the tablecloths she’d just finished counting. As anticipated, there were sixteen round ones, which left two extra since there were fourteen luncheon tables. Phyllida always had an extra of everything.

Except patience, when it came to Myrtle—who’d just made her appearance.

“What is that beast doing in here?” she demanded as the dark, curly-haired mop of a puppy barreled into the hall.

Bradford, the Mallowans’ chauffeur and Myrtle’s master (Phyllida used the term loosely, for she wasn’t quite certain who was the master of whom when it came to the two of them), came casually strolling into the room as if he had not just unleashed a hellhound in a church hall. He was carrying a large crate that presumably held the vases. “She wanted to come with me,” he replied, as if it were the least bit permissible to allow a puppy to run rampant through a luncheon hall. “Where do you want these, Mrs. Bright?”

Every time he said her name in that drawling, ironic tone, Phyllida’s hackles went up. She couldn’t help it. The man was impossible and simply filled with arrogant criticisms and unwanted observations. “On the table there,” she replied frostily. “Dogs are not allowed in the luncheon hall.”

Myrtle was tearing about the space, her tail flying behind her like a banner, barking, bouncing, skittering, and generally making a nuisance of itself. Phyllida removed herself quickly from the beast’s path as it streaked past her. Since Myrtle’s invasion of the grounds at Mallowan Hall, Phyllida had had to retire three pairs of silk stockings due to rents from the creature’s paws, as, for some reason, the beast seemed particularly enamored with her.

Needless to say, Myrtle was not welcome inside Phyllida’s domain of the manor house.

“Of course not, Mrs. Bright,” replied Bradford as he set down the crate. Was he chuckling at her quick footwork to avoid the beast? “But the luncheon isn’t for four hours. She’ll be long gone by then.”

Phyllida was interrupted from a tart reply about the remnants of Myrtle’s hair being everywhere by the arrival of Mrs. Agatha, Miss Sayers, Mr. Chesterton, and Mr. Berkeley.

“Good morning, Phyllida. I see you have everything well under control here,” said the lady of Mallowan Hall. There was a hint of laughter in Agatha’s voice, for upon her entrance, Myrtle had come charging up to her, tail wagging wildly. “Yes, you are quite adorable, aren’t you?” As Agatha bent to scratch the wriggling four-legged bundle of curls, Phyllida smothered an acerbic comment.

She and Agatha had become friends during the Great War, when women were eagerly conscripted for all sorts of jobs. At the time, both were single women, and since they were about the same age, their rapport was natural. Agatha had worked in the dispensary at the hospital—which was how she’d learned so much about the poisons she used in her books—and Phyllida had worked as a nurse at the same hospital before going to the front lines. They were great friends and had got along tremendously for more than ten years. The fact that Phyllida had chosen to take the position as housekeeper at Mallowan Hall had not altered their relationship in the least, although they did take pains to keep from being too familiar around each other in front of the other servants or guests.

One thing housekeeper and mistress did not agree upon was an affection for dogs. Mrs. Agatha had a wire terrier named Peter, and when Bradford had brought Myrtle to live with him in the garage apartment, both of the Mallowans had taken to the beast with rapturous affection.

Phyllida had not.

“Mr. Bradford promises to remove it well before the food arrives,” she told Agatha primly, knowing he was listening. “But of course we will have to sweep again due to the dog hair.” She shot the chauffeur a dark look and was rewarded by him ignoring her.

“I have no doubt everything will be in strict shipshape with you at the helm, Phyllida.” Agatha straightened, leaving Myrtle to find another victim.

Phyllida quickly sidestepped the slathering, drooling, panting beast once more, and so the mop transferred its attentions to Miss Sayers.

“You’ll be sitting at the head table there, G. K.,” said Agatha. She was speaking to Mr. Chesterton, who had agreed to be the Grand Master for the Murder Fête, as it was a charitable event being sponsored by the Detection Club.

The Detection Club was a group of detective fiction writers, including Agatha Christie, G. K. Chesterton, Dorothy L. Sayers, Anthony Berkeley, Hugh Walpole, Freeman Wills Crofts, and a dozen or so other popular authors. They met regularly in London to discuss the techniques and travails of crime fiction writing and to provide support to one another. Each had taken an oath to be fair to their readers in creating and presenting the solutions in their stories, but whether the oath was anything more than an inside joke, Phyllida wasn’t certain.

The Murder Fête in Listleigh was a weekend event that had been arranged to allow aspiring writers of detective stories the opportunity to meet successful writers of such works, as well as for the public to come and listen to the authors speak and to buy their books.

The aspiring writers paid a fee for the first day, which included the private Welcome Luncheon at half past one with the Detection Club attendees who were present—Sayers, Chesterton, Berkeley, and Christie—along with short classes taught by some of the published writers. The highlight of the first day was an outdoor cocktail party in the evening, giving the hopeful writers another chance to hobnob with the author celebrities. Along with their entrance fee, each amateur author had been offered the opportunity (for an additional fee) to submit a short story for a contest to be judged by the professionals. Tomorrow, Saturday, the fair on the grounds of St. Wendreda’s would be open to the public for book sales and a general festival. On Sunday at teatime would be the awarding of the Murder Fête Grand Prize.

As Grand Master, G. K. Chesterton would speak at the luncheon today, and on Sunday he would give out the prize for best short story to one of the aspiring authors. The prize was a publishing contract for the story in both England and the United States. Phyllida was privately rooting for Dr. Bhatt to win, for she’d read some of his work about a physician turned amateur detective. She thought it was exceedingly good.

Listleigh had been chosen as the site for the Murder Fête because of the local writers’ club. After John Bhatt, the town’s doctor and a member of the local club, heard about a fundraiser the Detection Club had participated in in London, he conceived the idea of a local fundraising event. This one was for the nearby orphanage and school for wayward children sponsored by St. Wen-dreda’s, which needed a new roof. Dr. Bhatt had sent a very compelling proposal to Mr. Chesterton, by way of Mrs. Agatha. The publicity such an event would afford the writers, the money it would raise for children in need, and the opportunity to get out of London during the hottest part of the summer prompted the Detection Club to accept the Listleigh writers’ club’s proposal.

Because of Agatha’s involvement, Phyllida had readily taken charge of the planning and execution of the event. Not only was this sort of activity exactly what she loved to manage—and was exceptional at doing—but also being at St. Wendreda’s for several days during the setup and event meant she was not at Mallowan Hall, and therefore did not have to interact with Mr. Dobble, the butler.

“Very well,” Mr. Chesterton replied after he looked at the table. Approaching his sixties, the writer of the popular Father Brown stories had masses of thick dark hair and habitually wore a pince-nez. He was a bulky, imposing man whose dark clothing merely added to his commanding persona. “How many aspiring writers will be here?”

“There are fifteen of them who have registered, and paid, of course,” Agatha told him. “They aren’t all from Listleigh. Some are coming from as far away as Wales.” She had declined the local club’s request to be the Grand Master, for she was quite shy and preferred not to speak in public or even in small groups unless she knew them well. It was a monumental decision for her to agree to participate at all, for Agatha disliked publicity and the press—but she could hardly decline with the event being such a local undertaking.

Being instrumental in the planning and executing of the event afforded Phyllida the opportunity to help keep her reclusive friend out of the public eye as much as possible, and the only public event was tomorrow’s book fair and the announcement of the grand prize winner.

“I trust you all received your copies of their short stories—there were only ten submitted—for the judging?” Agatha asked her colleagues.

“Yes, indeed,” replied Miss Sayers. “I received my packet a fortnight ago, which gave me ample opportunity to read them—although I had to finish the last on the train here.” Dorothy Sayers was a large, boisterous woman who tended to wear long black frocks that ebbed and flowed around her. Her dark hair was cut short in a style called the Eton crop, giving her a mannish appearance despite her draping clothing. “Some of them were actually quite good.”

“Quite. I thought so myself. Might be some competition at the publishers for us,” said Mr. Chesterton with a chuckle.

As she watched Ginny make up the vases and Molly finish the tablecloths, Phyllida couldn’t help but listen in hopes of overhearing any hint about who might be awarded the prize.

“Father Tooley has had all of the rankings since Monday of this week,” said Agatha. “So no one can accuse us of falling to any undue influence once we begin mingling with the writers.” She smiled.

“Indeed,” replied Mr. Chesterton. “A holy man counting the tallies would be above suspicion.”

“Have you decided on a favorite yourself?” asked Miss Sayers.

“Oh, yes,” replied Agatha. “There was one tale that particularly stood out to me. I found it quite entertaining, as well as clever. But there were several others with great merit. It should be quite interesting to see where we all stand with our preferences.”

Before she could get any indication of which story that was, Phyllida was required to move out of earshot when Myrtle discovered the swaying tail of a tablecloth that had just been placed.

“Leave that be, you little recalcitrant, annoying, hairy, beastly thing,” Phyllida said as she marched over to stop the nonsense. “Mr. Bradford, if you would remove this nuisance at once.”

Looking not the least bit abashed, the chauffeur swooped up the motley beast. As Myrtle began to slather his face with what passed for affection, Phyllida couldn’t help but notice that the beast’s thick curls were indistinguishable from her master’s unruly mop of hair. Two of a kind, she thought irritably. Both lacking any sort of decorum or respect.

“All right, then, Mrs. Bright,” said Bradford. The bridge of his arrogant, blade-like nose was shiny where the dog had been licking him. Phyllida suppressed a shudder. “We’ll take ourselves off, then. What time shall we return to bring you back?”

It was Phyllida’s current private hope that the Mallowans would either hire a second chauffeur or that Bradford would leave—and take his dog with him—for some greener pastures or greasier garages. Having to ride in the Daimler with him whenever she wanted to go into town or anywhere else was nearly as trying as dealing with Mr. Dobble.

Nonetheless, she was the consummate professional, and she had learned over the years that she could get along with anyone, regardless of how irritating or sardonic they might be, as long as they did their job. And unfortunately, Bradford was more than equal to his job.

“I should like to be picked up at three o’clock, and then I’ll need to return here by half five in order to see to final preparations for the cocktail party, if you please, Mr. Bradford.”

He looked at her from over the top of the panting puppy’s head. The beast’s little pink tongue was lolling from the side of its mouth like an unfurled ribbon. “Right, then. Myrtle and I will be here to collect you just before three o’clock.” He gave her a cheeky grin, obviously knowing how much she loathed the idea of being trapped in a vehicle with that slathering menace.

“Thank you, Mr. Bradford.”

A loud thud followed by an ominous crash had her spinning from further repartee with the driver.

One of the tables had somehow been upended. Flowers, water, and a shattered vase were all over the floor.

It was a good thing Phyllida had extras . . . of everything.

* * *

“I’m so very anxious about meeting all of them!” said Digby Billdop. “All of those famous writers!”

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