A Study in Scandal Read online

  A Study in Scandal

  

  Robyn DeHart

  A Study in Scandal

  Robyn DeHart

  Copyright 2018 by Robyn DeHart

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Book cover: Earthly Charms

  http://www.earthlycharms.com

  With regard to digital publication, be advised that any alteration of font size or spacing by the reader could change the author’s original format.

  Dedication

  To my sweet husband, Paul, your faith in me is amazing. I can’t believe how fortunate I am to be your wife.

  To Bob and Marilyn, thanks for the warm welcome— I couldn’t have handpicked better in-laws.

  Author’s Note

  All quotes are taken from the Sherlock Holmes canon and were spoken by Sherlock Holmes himself.

  Ladies’ Amateur Sleuth Society

  Roster

  Amelia Watersfield

  Margaret Piddington

  Wilhelmina Mabson

  Charlotte Reed

  Prologue

  “Come, Watson, come! The game is afoot.” ~The Adventure of Abbey Grange

  London, 1892

  Amelia Watershed’s hand flew to her mouth and her breath caught in her throat. She fought the urge to scan down the page of the Strand as excitement bubbled inside her. Such a sinister crime, but oh, so brilliant too.

  She moved her hand to block the page to the right, so great was her desire to know if her speculation was correct. Her foot tapped a restless beat on the floor. It was almost time.

  She turned the page just as that clever detective solved the case. Aha, she was right!

  She smiled, held the magazine to her chest, and leaned back into the thick velvet chair. Amelia sighed as she always did when she finished the latest story. And now she would have to wait for the next one to solve another mystery.

  It was a shame that the man most perfect for her was of literary persuasion rather than flesh and blood.

  Sherlock Holmes.

  She shook her head, fully acknowledging she was acting as a twelve-year-old girl would. Sherlock was not real. He was nothing more than a creation of the writer’s mind, yet there was no other man like him. So clever, so intelligent, so witty. It was a pity—as what a treat it would be to know such a man.

  She frowned. How was it that poor Watson never quite caught on? Oh, he’d gotten better at noticing details as they continued with their cases, but he never saw the important details. She herself would be a much better assistant.

  The clock chimed three, bringing Amelia to her feet. The other ladies would arrive any moment. Amelia rang for tea and shortly thereafter the girls filed into the parlor.

  Amelia loved their meetings nearly as much as she loved the Sherlock stories. And they had big things to discuss today. She waited for them all to settle in before she began.

  Tapping her spoon against her teacup, she cleared her throat. “I now call to order this meeting of the Ladies’ Amateur Sleuth Society. Let us recite our oath,” Amelia Watersfield said.

  “Honestly, Amelia, must we repeat the oath at every meeting?” Charlotte asked.

  It was silly, Amelia knew that. They weren’t an official society, merely four friends who called themselves such. Repeating the oath certainly made it feel real, though. And with today’s news, everything about their society could change.

  “It makes it more official,” Amelia replied.

  “We solemnly swear to unravel mysteries by ferreting out secrets at all costs,” they said in unison.

  “Are we all present?”

  Amelia looked around her parlor, her three closest friends the only other occupants. Charlotte sat straight and tall with a look of sheer annoyance on her pretty face, her lips pursed, creating little creases above her perfect rosebud mouth. Meg’s legs were somehow hidden beneath her dress; no doubt she sat cross-legged, although how she managed it in the skirt was beyond Amelia’s comprehension. And then there was Willow, spectacles perched on her nose, a frown furrowing her brow.

  Forming the society had been Amelia’s idea, admittedly as an outlet for her fascination with mysteries, and her friends, being the generous souls they were, agreed to join. It was only the four of them, and not another person knew of the group’s existence, but they met weekly regardless.

  But with today’s news, everything might change. Perhaps their first official case, a new thief that was currently keeping Scotland Yard detectives at bay.

  Her hands itched with excitement. Before today, they had dabbled in the occasional case, though it was difficult to discover the whereabouts of Lady Craddock’s missing necklace without proper clues or the opportunity to interrogate anyone. But with this case, information and potential clues would be printed in the newspaper—giving them the perfect situation.

  Finally Amelia would be able to work on an honest-to-goodness crime. Well, crime was neither honest nor good, but that was beside the point.

  “Now then, have any of you read the paper today?” she asked.

  Charlotte and Meg both shook their heads, while Willow pulled the item in question out of her parcel.

  “I haven’t quite finished,” she said. “I got caught up in the ludicrousness of the front-page story. That man is a pitiful writer. Takes him several paragraphs to say what should only take a sentence, perhaps two. He drones on and on.”

  “Thank you for the vivid example, Willow,” Charlotte said playfully.

  Willow pushed her glasses back up her nose and released a low breath.

  “I’m certain he’s a dreadful writer,” Amelia offered, “but the story I read applies slightly more to the purpose of our meeting today. Did you see the small report on page seven about the robbery at the opera the other evening?”

  Willow shook her head. “No, I haven’t yet made it to page seven.”

  “Allow me to fill you in. A masked gentleman sneaked into a private seating booth and blatantly took all of the ladies’ jewels, as well as a diamond- encrusted walking stick. He got away before they could report it to the authorities. Apparently the robbery took place in the middle of a particularly long aria, and the people in the booth did not want to disturb the audience.”

  “That’s preposterous. I wouldn’t have cared a whit about disrupting people,” Charlotte said, clearly put out about the entire situation.

  “Propriety has never been your strong suit, Charlotte,” Meg said.

  “Yes, well, these people did seem to care about annoying the other operagoers. In any case, the paper calls him the Jack of Hearts,” Amelia said. “It seems this isn’t his first attack, although it’s the first they’ve reported on him in the Times.”

  “Why do they call him that?” Willow asked.

  “Apparently he leaves a Jack of Hearts playing card at every scene,” Amelia said.

  “Then it shouldn’t take the authorities too long to catch him,” Willow observed.

  “Why is that?” Meg asked.

  “It’s simple, actually,” Willow said. “The man cannot have an endless supply of playing cards, so they need only inquire around the shops and gather information on the people who purchase cards regularly. I h
aven’t purchased cards myself, but surely there isn’t an endless supply of stores that sell them.”

  “Brilliant,” Amelia said. “We can start there.”

  “We? What exactly does this case have to do with us?” Charlotte asked.

  “I thought it could be our first real case,” Amelia said. “I realize that no one outside of our group would know we were investigating this Jack of Hearts, but we could solve this case. Wouldn’t that be so exciting?”

  Amelia acknowledged that this was probably more exciting for her, but eventually her friends would feel the same. She felt confident she could bring the inner detectives out of them. After all, she’d successfully done so when introducing them to the world of Sherlock Holmes. Now they were all hooked on his great adventures.

  “What do we need to do?” Willow asked.

  Amelia smiled. “For now, I think we should keep our ears and eyes open. Keep reading the newspaper for more reports.” She held up one finger. “Oh, and we must reacquaint ourselves with Millicent Moffett.”

  Charlotte groaned.

  “I know, I know,” Amelia said. “She’s dreadfully annoying, but the very best source of information in town. She always knows everything.”

  “Very well,” Charlotte conceded, “but I’m not making any promises where Millicent’s concerned.”

  “Charlotte has a point. We might want to keep the two of them separated,” Meg said. “She truly hates Charlotte.”

  Willow cleared her throat. “One might say it’s justifiable hatred. Charlotte, you did steal Millicent’s beau.”

  Charlotte sat straight up. “I did no such thing. Can I help it if the man preferred me to Millie’s nasal tones? And her clothes.” She waved her hand in front of her face. “She has no taste. I did her a favor, if you ask me. That man had wretched breath.”

  “Did he kiss you?” Amelia asked in a tone far more eager than she intended. She sank back into her seat and hoped no one had noticed.

  “No. Not for lack of trying, though. I swear that man had more than two hands.”

  “Charlotte, you are disgraceful,” Willow said.

  Amelia had always marveled at how Willow and Charlotte could speak so nastily to each other yet remain friends. They appreciated their differences and weren’t afraid to acknowledge them. It was a brutal honesty Amelia had never experienced. She’d always been such a pleasant sort that no one ever aimed a cross word in her direction. But that was hardly the thing a person legitimately complained about.

  “So it’s settled,” she said. “We shall start our investigation today and keep each other abreast of any new clues we might discover. This shall be a most exciting adventure.”

  Chapter One

  “It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data.” ~A Scandal in Bohemia

  “She’s gone! Oh, good heavens, she’s gone!”

  Amelia jumped at her father’s yell. She ran as swiftly as she could to her father’s study. He stood in the middle of the room wringing his hands.

  “Father,” she said, her voice labored from her exertion. “Who’s gone?”

  “Oh, Amelia, it’s dreadful. I came in here to work, you know how I do each morning. Come in, read the paper, have some tea, make some notes in my journal—everything was as it should be, but as I got up to pour a second cup of tea, which you know is my custom to do, I just happened to move the tea tray over to the bookshelf and then I realized she was gone.”

  “Yes, Father, but who is gone?”

  “Nefertiti.”

  Amelia spun around to the table where the antique usually sat and, precisely as he said, the piece was missing. “I’m positive there is a logical explanation. Let us retrace your steps.”

  Her father waved his hands about so frantically, it looked as though he might take flight. “My steps are the same as always, dear girl, there was nothing different about this morning save the fact that my prize possession is missing. We must call the authorities. Report a burglary.”

  “Is anything else missing?”

  Amelia took a quick scan of the room. It was hard to decipher if anyone had rifled through anything, as the room was always rather messy, with papers and books spread about. Today was no different. Six books were piled on top of her father’s desk and two maps lay unrolled on the floor. The few other artifacts he kept in his office remained in their places. It was curious indeed.

  “I do not think so, but I have not looked around. I only just discovered she was missing. Oh, perhaps everything is gone.” He grabbed the sides of his face. “My entire collection.”

  “Father, please sit before you have a fainting spell. You look quite pale.”

  “Yes, yes, you’re right. I am feeling a tad lightheaded.” He allowed her to lead him to his chair, but once seated he shook his head firmly. “But you should know, girl, that men do not have fainting spells. We have a much stronger constitution than you women do.”

  “Of course.” It was not an accurate statement, for she knew firsthand that her father had fainted in the past. That time when she’d cut her finger and at the first sight of blood, he’d fallen over. Or the time he nearly dropped the ancient Greek vase on the dining room table. He was sensitive about things, but he’d always claimed he’d simply dozed off. There was no sense in arguing with him.

  “Take heart, Papa, it looks as though not all is lost. I believe Monsieur Pitre returned your vase, and it’s all cleaned up.”

  Her father nodded. “Yes, he brought it by last night.” He stood suddenly. “Authorities, Amelia, we must contact them straightaway. Oh, this is dreadful. Poor Nefertiti.”

  “I will do so right now. You sit still and try to calm yourself and I will soon discover what has happened to her.”

  Ah, a mystery right in her own home. She nearly giggled with delight. Despite the fact that it was wrong to enjoy her father’s misfortune, she secretly hoped for the opportunity to discover the truth behind Nefertiti’s disappearance. Amelia was quite clever when it came to solving the mysteries in the Sherlock stories—surely this wouldn’t be vastly different.

  Two hours later, the authorities proved not so helpful. They had sent an officer over to investigate, but there was no evidence someone had actually broken into the home. And no evidence that a statue had even been in this office, aside from Amelia and her father’s word. As the authorities saw it, no crime had been committed. Amelia had been instructed to contact them should any additional evidence appear.

  “We shall discern this on our own, Father, we do not need the police.”

  “You are quite right, my girl.” Her father’s features wrinkled as he pondered the situation, then his face broke into a smile. “I know precisely the person to assist us. Webster Brindley’s boy. I do believe he’s a private inspector. Surely he will help. I seem to recall Webster sending me a bit of post with his son’s card.”

  He flipped through a stack of papers on the desk. “Surely it’s here somewhere. We must find it and have him come to the house. Evidence or not, a crime was committed and I want Nefertiti back home safely.”

  “We shall find him,” Amelia soothed. She gave him an encouraging smile and squeezed his hand. “I shall send for the inspector straightaway.”

  Four hours later Amelia sat in her father’s study desperately trying to console him.

  “Father, do calm down, the inspector should be here any moment,” Amelia said.

  “I know you’re right dear, but this is Nefertiti. Every moment she is gone is wretched. She is irreplaceable, Amelia.”

  “Of course she is. And we shall find her.” Amelia watched her father wear a path in the expensive Persian rug. With his short stature, he resembled a child’s windup toy, chugging back and forth across the floor. She suppressed a smile. This was supposed to be a serious matter.

  There was a short rap on the door, and then their butler, Weston, entered with a very tall man at his heels.

  “Lord Watersfield, a Colin Brindley to see you. He says he’s an ins
pector for hire and you requested his presence.” Weston’s tone was severe, and he did nothing to hide the annoyance in his expression.

  Weston was quite likely the most arrogant man in all of London, but he’d served their family with a loyalty that was difficult to come by. And seeing as neither Amelia nor her father had an ounce of pretension in their bodies, Weston viewed it as his obligation to carry enough for both of them.

  “Thank you, Weston,” she said, walking forward. “We were expecting Inspector Brindley.”

  Weston paused a moment before nodding and leaving through the double doors.

  It took Amelia a moment to appreciate fully the presence of Inspector Brindley. He was much younger than she’d anticipated. She’d expected a portly, older man with not much hair to speak of. Webster Brindley was quite older than her father so it seemed a natural assumption that his son would be much older than she. Instead he was young, not more than five and thirty, leanly muscled, with a slight graying of thick brown hair at his temples. Enough to give him a distinguished, well-lived-in look. Her heartbeat quickened as she took him all in and she reminded herself why he’d come.

  There was something about him that seemed vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t determine precisely what it was.

  “Inspector Brindley, I am Amelia Watersfield, and this is my father, Lord Robert Watersfield. Please come in and sit down.” She motioned to the leather wingback chair.

  The inspector nodded, but said nothing, and did not sit. He watched her father, who had since stopped pacing and now stood observing the inspector.

  Her father squinted. “I don’t remember you being so tall,” he finally said.

  “I believe I was seven, my lord, the last time you saw me.”

  “That would explain it.” He shrugged. “Tell me, how is your father?”