With the sign of a human skull upon its back and a melancholy shriek emitted when disturbed, the Death’s Head Hawkmoth has for centuries been a bringer of doom and an omen of death – which is why we chose it as the emblem for our Vintage Murder Mysteries.

Some say that its appearance in King George III’s bedchamber pushed him into madness. Others believe that should its wings extinguish a candle by night, those nearby will be cursed with blindness. Indeed its very name, Acherontia atropos, delves into the most sinister realms of Greek mythology: Acheron, the River of Pain in the underworld, and Atropos, the Fate charged with severing the thread of life.

The perfect companion, then, for our Vintage Murder Mysteries sleuths, for whom sinister occurrences are never far away and murder is always just around the corner …

CHAPTER 1

Mrs Bradley Takes a Christmas Vacation

‘Go, stop the swift-winged moments in their flight

To their yet unknown coast, go hinder night

From its approach on day.’

William Habington

Mrs Beatrice Adela Lestrange Bradley tapped with the corner of a stiff envelope on the edge of her writing desk. It was very seldom that she found difficulty in coming to a decision, but on this occasion she was conscious of doubt and hesitation.

She put the envelope down, took up a foolscap envelope instead, re-opened it, and re-read the letter it contained – an invitation to a conference of educational psychiatrists in Stockholm. The letter was warmly expressed, Mrs Bradley had spent an autumn and early winter in special and most fascinating research, and she badly wanted to attend the conference, whose views, generally speaking, would not accord with her own, but whose members would be interested in, if argumentative on, what she would have to say.

On the other hand, there was the invitation from the Cotswolds. Mrs Bradley’s three marriages had provided her with a vast and varied tribe of spirited and gifted in-laws, some of whom she liked. The stiff envelope contained a letter from her favourite nephew who had obliged her by marrying the young woman of her choice. Mrs Bradley had greatly desired to find place in the family circle for the lovely Deborah Cloud, and her nephew Jonathan had been the vehicle for this inclusion. That he had chosen Deborah for his own and not for his aunt’s reasons delighted that powerful but scrupulous mediator almost more than the actual fulfilment of her wishes.

‘Now we’ve somewhere to live, won’t you please come and spend Christmas? We are combining a Christmas party with a general house-warming, and are particularly anxious to have you,’ Jonathan had written. ‘Good company, Deb looking her best, and, what’s more, I’ve achieved a bottle of Scotch, and if you stay until New Year’s Day I swear you shall have a haggis.