Afternoon Tea Mysteries, Volume One: A Collection of Cozy Mysteries (Three thrilling novels in one volume!) Read online

  Afternoon Tea Mysteries, Volume One: A Collection of Cozy Mysteries

  Tory Hageman

  Copyright Tory Hageman 2011

  Published by ignacio hills press.

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  Note from publisher: Original erratic punctuation and unusual spellings have been retained for this collection.

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  Cozy Mystery One: The Mysterious Bag - A Kristen Carter Mystery!

  Kristen Carter, is a plain Quaker woman in her thirties who finds herself “thrown upon the world penniless and all but friendless” in 1920's London. With no way to earn a living, she decides to try her luck as a detective--which has the unfortunate effect of cutting her off from her friends and original position in society. In this story: Craigen Court is burgled, Lady Cathrow’s jewels stolen, and her French maid is suspected of having a hand in the job. Is there a connection between the theft and a bag whose contents include clerical trappings and a suicide note found on a doorstep not far away? Written by Tory Hageman.

  Cozy Mystery Two: Murder at Bridge

  A mystery written by acclaimed mystery author, Anne Austin. Broadway belle Nita Selim (an actress with a colorful past) has come to a prosperous Midwestern town and inserted herself into local high society. But neither she nor they are all what they seem, as becomes clear when she’s found dead during a bridge party. Investigator Bonnie Dundee tracks the killer with earnest derring-do.

  Cozy Mystery Three: The Mill Mystery

  A mystery written by acclaimed mystery author, Anna Katharine Green. A young clergyman is found dead in mysterious circumstances in a disused mill. The news is fatal to his fiancée. And an imperious matron on the other side of town also has a stroke on hearing the news. Why? And why are her two sons behaving in such a sinister manner? The dying fiancée’s roommate – a level-headed orphan – decides to investigate, takes a job nursing the sick woman, and helps to uncover a shocking tale of selfishness, greed and hypocrisy.

  Cozy Mystery Four: The Woman in the Alcove

  Another great mystery written by acclaimed author, Anna Katharine Green. A young nurse gets engaged during the course of a ball in New York. Then a woman is found murdered and her diamonds stolen. The nurse investigates, in an effort to clear her fiancé’s name.

  Table of Contents

  Cozy Mystery One: The Mysterious Bag – A Kristen Carter Mystery

  Cozy Mystery Two: Murder at Bridge

  Murder At Bridge Chapter One

  Murder At Bridge Chapter Two

  Murder At Bridge Chapter Three

  Murder At Bridge Chapter Four

  Murder At Bridge Chapter Five

  Murder At Bridge Chapter Six

  Murder At Bridge Chapter Seven

  Murder At Bridge Chapter Eight

  Murder At Bridge Chapter Nine

  Murder At Bridge Chapter Ten

  Murder At Bridge Chapter Eleven

  Murder At Bridge Chapter Twelve

  Murder At Bridge Chapter Thirteen

  Murder At Bridge Chapter Fourteen

  Murder At Bridge Chapter Fifteen

  Murder At Bridge Chapter Sixteen

  Murder At Bridge Chapter Seventeen

  Murder At Bridge Chapter Eighteen

  Murder At Bridge Chapter Nineteen

  Murder At Bridge Chapter Twenty

  Murder At Bridge Chapter Twenty-One

  Murder At Bridge Chapter Twenty-Two

  Murder At Bridge Chapter Twenty-Three

  Murder At Bridge Chapter Twenty-Four

  Murder At Bridge Chapter Twenty-Five

  Murder At Bridge Chapter Twenty-Six

  Murder At Bridge Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Murder At Bridge Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Murder At Bridge Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Cozy Mystery Three: The Mill Mystery

  The Mill Mystery Chapter I

  The Mill Mystery Chapter II

  The Mill Mystery Chapter III

  The Mill Mystery Chapter IV

  The Mill Mystery Chapter V

  The Mill Mystery Chapter VI

  The Mill Mystery Chapter VII

  The Mill Mystery Chapter VIII

  The Mill Mystery Chapter IX

  The Mill Mystery Chapter X

  The Mill Mystery Chapter XI

  The Mill Mystery Chapter XII

  The Mill Mystery Chapter XIII

  The Mill Mystery Chapter XIV

  The Mill Mystery Chapter XV

  The Mill Mystery Chapter XVI

  The Mill Mystery Chapter XVII

  The Mill Mystery Chapter XVIII

  The Mill Mystery Chapter XIX

  The Mill Mystery Chapter XX

  The Mill Mystery Chapter XXI

  The Mill Mystery Chapter XXII

  The Mill Mystery Chapter XXIII

  The Mill Mystery Chapter XXIV

  The Mill Mystery Chapter XXV

  The Mill Mystery Chapter XXVI

  The Mill Mystery Chapter XXVII

  The Mill Mystery Chapter XXVIII

  Cozy Mystery Four: The Woman in the Alcove

  Woman in the Alcove Chapter I

  Woman in the Alcove Chapter II

  Woman in the Alcove Chapter III

  Woman in the Alcove Chapter IV

  Woman in the Alcove Chapter V

  Woman in the Alcove Chapter VI

  Woman in the Alcove Chapter VII

  Woman in the Alcove Chapter VIII

  Woman in the Alcove Chapter IX

  Woman in the Alcove Chapter X

  Woman in the Alcove Chapter XI

  Woman in the Alcove Chapter XII

  Woman in the Alcove Chapter XIII

  Woman in the Alcove Chapter XIV

  Woman in the Alcove Chapter XV

  Woman in the Alcove Chapter XVI

  Woman in the Alcove Chapter XVII

  Woman in the Alcove Chapter XVIII

  Woman in the Alcove Chapter XIX

  Woman in the Alcove Chapter XX

  Woman in the Alcove Chapter XXI
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  Woman in the Alcove Chapter XXII

  Woman in the Alcove Chapter XXIII

  Cozy Mystery One: The Mysterious Bag – A Kristen Carter Mystery

  “IT’S a big thing,” said Kristen Elizabeth Carter, addressing Nathan Mutchey, chief of the well-known detective agency in Lynch Court, Fleet Street; “Lady Cathrow has lost £30,000 worth of jewelry, if the newspaper accounts are to be trusted.”

  “They are fairly accurate this time. The robbery differs in few respects from the usual run of country-house robberies. The time chosen, of course, was the dinner-hour, when the family and guests were at table and the servants not on duty were amusing themselves in their own quarters. The fact of its being Christmas Eve would also of necessity add to the business and consequent distraction of the household. The entry to the house, however, in this case was not effected in the usual manner by a ladder to the dressing-room window, but through the window of a room on the ground floor—a small room with one window and two doors, one of which opens into the hall, and the other into a passage that leads by the back stairs to the bedroom floor. It is used, I believe, as a sort of hat and coat room by the gentlemen of the house.”

  “It was, I suppose, the weak point of the house?”

  “Quite so. A very weak point indeed. Craigen Court, the residence of Sir George and Lady Cathrow, is an oddly-built old place, jutting out in all directions, and as this window looked out upon a blank wall, it was filled in with stained glass, kept fastened by a strong brass catch, and never opened, day or night, ventilation being obtained by means of a glass ventilator fitted in the upper panes. It seems absurd to think that this window, being only about four feet from the ground, should have had neither iron bars nor shutters added to it; such, however, was the case. On the night of the robbery, someone within the house must have deliberately, and of intention, unfastened its only protection, the brass catch, and thus given the thieves easy entrance to the house.”

  “Your suspicions, I suppose, center upon the servants?”

  “Undoubtedly; and it is in the servants’ hall that your services will be required. The thieves, whoever they were, were perfectly cognizant of the ways of the house. Lady Cathrow’s jewelry was kept in a safe in her dressing-room, and as the dressing-room was over the dining-room, Sir George was in the habit of saying that it was the ‘safest’ room in the house. (Note the pun, please; Sir George is rather proud of it.) By his orders the window of the dining-room immediately under the dressing-room window was always left unshuttered and without blind during dinner, and as a full stream of light thus fell through it on to the outside terrace, it would have been impossible for anyone to have placed a ladder there unseen.”

  “I see from the newspapers that it was Sir George’s invariable custom to fill his house and give a large dinner on Christmas Eve.”

  “Yes. Sir George and Lady Cathrow are elderly people, with no family and few relatives, and have consequently a large amount of time to spend on their friends.”

  “I suppose the key of the safe was frequently left in the possession of Lady Cathrow’s maid?”

  “Yes. She is a young French girl, Stephanie Delacroix by name. It was her duty to clear the dressing-room directly after her mistress left it; put away any jewelry that might be lying about, lock the safe, and keep the key till her mistress came up to bed. On the night of the robbery, however, she admits that, instead of so doing, directly her mistress left the dressing-room, she ran down to the housekeeper’s room to see if any letters had come for her, and remained chatting with the other servants for some time—she could not say for how long. It was by the half-past-seven post that her letters generally arrived from St. Omer, where her home is.”

  “Oh, then, she was in the habit of thus running down to enquire for her letters, no doubt, and the thieves, who appear to be so thoroughly cognizant of the house, would know this also.”

  “Perhaps; though at the present moment I must say things look very black against the girl. Her manner, too, when questioned, is not calculated to remove suspicion. She goes from one fit of hysterics into another; contradicts herself nearly every time she opens her mouth, then lays it to the charge of her ignorance of our language; breaks into voluble French; becomes theatrical in action, and then goes off into hysterics once more.”

  “All that is quite Français, you know,” said Kristen. “Do the authorities at Scotland Yard lay much stress on the safe being left unlocked that night?”

  “They do, and they are instituting a keen enquiry as to the possible lovers the girl may have. For this purpose they have sent Bates down to stay in the village and collect all the information he can outside the house. But they want someone within the walls to hob-nob with the maids generally, and to find out if she has taken any of them into her confidence respecting her lovers. So they sent to me to know if I would send down for this purpose one of the shrewdest and most clear-headed of my female detectives. I, in my turn, Miss Carter, have sent for you—you may take it as a compliment if you like. So please now get out your notebook, and I’ll give you sailing orders.”

  Kristen Carter, at this period of her career, was a little over thirty years of age, and could be best described in a series of negations. She was not tall, she was not short; she was not dark, she was not fair; she was neither handsome nor ugly. Her features were altogether nondescript; her one noticeable trait was a habit she had, when absorbed in thought, of dropping her eyelids over her eyes till only a line of eyeball showed, and she appeared to be looking out at the world through a slit, instead of through a window.

  Her hair was medium-length and shown to be a soft brown in full sunlight. As she was a practicing Quaker, her dress was invariably black and plain as well. Some five or six years previously, by a jerk of Fortune’s wheel, Kristen had been thrown upon the world penniless and all but friendless. Marketable accomplishments she had found she had none, so she had forthwith defied convention, and had chosen for herself a career that had cut her off sharply from her former associates and her position in society. For five or six years she drudged away patiently in the lower walks of her profession; then chance, or, to speak more precisely, an intricate criminal case, threw her in the way of the experienced head of the flourishing detective agency in Lynch Court. He quickly enough found out the stuff she was made of, and threw her in the way of better-class work—work, indeed, that brought increase of pay and of reputation alike to him and to Kristen.

  Nathan Mutchey was not, as a rule, given to enthusiasm; but he would at times wax eloquent over Miss Carter’s qualifications for the profession she had chosen.

  “Too much of a lady, do you say?” he would say to anyone who chanced to call in question those qualifications. “I don’t care twopence-halfpenny whether she is or is not a lady. I only know she is the most sensible and practical woman I ever met. In the first place, she has the faculty—so rare among women—of carrying out orders to the very letter: in the second place, she has a clear, shrewd brain, unhampered by any hard-and-fast theories; thirdly, and most important item of all, she has so much common sense that it amounts to genius—positively to genius, sir.”

  But although Kristen and her chief as a rule, worked together upon an easy and friendly footing, there were occasions on which they were wont, so to speak, to snarl at each other.

  Such an occasion was at hand now.

  Kristen showed no disposition to take out her notebook and receive her “sailing orders.”

  “I want to know,” she said, “If what I saw in one newspaper is true—that one of the thieves before leaving, took the trouble to close the safe-door, and to write across it in chalk: ‘To be let, unfurnished’?”

  “Perfectly true; but I do not see that stress need be laid on the fact. The scoundrels often do that sort of thing out of insolence or bravado. In that robbery at Reigate, the other day, they went to a lady’s Davenport, took a sheet of her note-paper, and wrote their thanks on it for her kindness in not having had the lock of her safe rep
aired. Now, if you will get out your notebook—”

  “Don’t be in such a hurry,” said Kristen calmly: “I want to know if you have seen this?” She leaned across the writing-table at which they sat, one either side, and handed to him a newspaper cutting which she took from her letter-case.

  Mr. Mutchey was a tall, powerfully-built man with a large head, benevolent bald forehead and a genial smile. That smile, however, often proved a trap to the unwary, for he owned a temper so irritable that a child with a chance word might ruffle it.

  The genial smile vanished as he took the newspaper cutting from Kristen’s hand.

  “I would have you to remember, Miss Carter,” he said severely, “that although I am in the habit of using dispatch in my business, I am never known to be in a hurry; hurry in affairs I take to be the especial mark of the slovenly and unpunctual.”

  Then, as if still further to give contradiction to her words, he very deliberately unfolded her slip of newspaper and slowly, accentuating each word and syllable, read as follows:—

  “Singular Discovery.

  “A black leather bag, or portmanteau, was found early yesterday morning by one of Smith’s newspaper boys on the doorstep of a house in the road running between Easterbrook and Wreford, and inhabited by an elderly spinster lady. The contents of the bag include a clerical collar and necktie, a Church Service, a book of sermons, a copy of the works of Virgil, a facsimile of Magna Charta, with translations, a pair of black kid gloves, a brush and comb, some newspapers, and several small articles suggesting clerical ownership. On the top of the bag the following extraordinary letter, written in pencil on a long slip of paper, was found:

  ‘The fatal day has arrived. I can exist no longer. I go hence and shall be no more seen. But I would have Coroner and Jury know that I am a sane man, and a verdict of temporary insanity in my case would be an error most gross after this intimation. I care not if it is felo de se, as I shall have passed all suffering. Search diligently for my poor lifeless body in the immediate neighbourhood—on the cold heath, the rail, or the river by yonder bridge—a few moments will decide how I shall depart. If I had walked aright I might have been a power in the Church of which I am now an unworthy member and priest; but the damnable sin of gambling got hold on me, and betting has been my ruin, as it has been the ruin of thousands who have preceded me. Young man, shun the bookmaker and the race-course as you would shun the devil and hell. Farewell, chums of Magdalen. Farewell, and take warning. Though I can claim relationship with a Duke, a Marquess, and a Bishop, and though I am the son of a noble woman, yet am I a tramp and an outcast, verily and indeed. Sweet death, I greet thee. I dare not sign my name. To one and all, farewell. O, my poor Marchioness mother, a dying kiss to thee. R.I.P.’