Amidst the gas-lit streets of 1870 London, twenty-two-year-old Tamsin’s world is shattered when she discovers her beloved uncle, a retired Lieutenant Detective for Her Majesty, dead at his desk. It is midnight and sounds from her uncle’s library woke her.

Determined to uncover the truth behind his untimely demise, Tamsin embarks on a perilous journey of deception and investigation. With the clock ticking and suspicion mounting, she must navigate the dangerous labyrinth of Victorian society to unmask a killer lurking in the shadows. A killer who may take her life as well. Perhaps a killer who is close to her.

Finding a welcome ally in Harrison Spenser, a criminal law student, whom her uncle mentored, Tamsin and Harrison race against time to unravel the secrets of her uncle’s final moments.

Can the two amateur sleuths uncover the sinister truths hiding behind the façade of respectability, or will the secrets of Uncle Basil’s demise be buried forever?

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Release Date: October 15, 2024
Genre: Historical Romance | Mystery

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Excerpt

Chapter One

Tuesday, 11:45 p.m.

20 September 1870

 

Indistinct noises penetrated Tamsin’s sleep and she lifted her groggy head off the eiderdown pillow. Though muffled, the voices sounded belligerent, like an argument was occurring in her uncle’s library directly below her chamber. The mahogany long-case clock in the downstairs hall chimed the Westminster third quarter.

She scrambled from the bed, shoved her arms into her robe, and swept along the corridor, down the front stairs toward the muted friction. The staff, housed in the attic, would most likely not be aroused considering their distance from the first floor.

As she entered the library, Uncle Basil reclined in his desk chair, his head resting against the leather back. His hands curved over the arms of his chair. His hazel eyes stared at the coffered ceiling seemingly deep in concentration.

She touched his shoulder. “Can I get you something?” And gently shook him. “Uncle.”

Puzzled when he didn’t respond, she took note of two glasses of his favorite brandy on the desk. The one nearest him nearly empty, the other untouched.

She placed her hands on his warm cheeks. It crossed her mind he might have imbibed too much, though it wasn’t his usual behavior to do so.

The chill of the night air washed over her and already suspecting mischief, she spun to the hall noticing the front door ajar. Stepping over the threshold she glanced at the walk that divided the lawn. Then she pattered to the iron gate and latched it as her cursory glance swept up and down Berkley Street.

Streetlamps cast gloomy circles of light in the night’s dense fog filtering through Portman Square. A hack approached, the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves echoing on the cobbled street but no movement otherwise.

Returning to the library and her motionless uncle, Tamsin’s panic increased. Had he suffered apoplexy?

She laid a hand on his shoulder feeling his warm strength beneath the cambric of his white shirt and noticed tiny crystals like froth on his lips.

Clutching the chair arm, her gaze swept over his distinctive features. She loved this kind man as if he were her father.

A sliver of fear crept its icy fingers along her spine circling her heart.

Someone had been here with him. Who? At this hour she supposed the business would have involved intrigue. Though retired, he had been one of The Queen’s trusted men. Sweeping her palm over his forehead she brushed his thick auburn hair off his brow.

“Uncle, you need to go to bed.”

Moments passed. Her hand rested on his shoulder, and she suddenly realized he wasn’t breathing.

As she leaned over him his arm fell off the arm of the chair...and her heart skipped a beat.

Was he...was he ill...

He didn’t respond.

His eyes hadn’t closed.

Her heart clutched. No. Dear God, please. No. 

She leaned over him again, her arms about him. At some point she knew he was dead, and yet her mind couldn’t accept it.

Time passed. She moved backward a step or two, lifting his arm to his lap.

She glanced at the desktop, the two glasses, the low-lit lamp. She smelled the aroma of his pipe and his spicy outdoorsy scent.

He might have died of natural causes. Yet her intuition told her the liquid in the Waterford crystals killed him.

Poisoned him.

Who spent the last minutes of his life with him?

She touched his cheek, and his head rolled toward her. She caught a scream bubbling in her throat and readjusted his head against the back of the chair as his arm dropped from the armrest again. A sure sign.

He was dead.

Her heart raced and she had trouble breathing. Her legs melted like jelly. She leaned against his desk taking in the whole of his body as it appeared to be resting in the chair.

Dear God.

He...was...dead.

It was almost as if she floated above his desk and looked down on her beloved uncle as if nothing more than a horrid dream.

Cupping his face with her cold hands, she drew herself into the truth. The numbness of the moment chipped away as the ache in her heart seeped into her mind and the hands that touched him. The knowledge they’d had their last conversation, their last laugh, never more to hug.

Could he be poisoned? The bit of froth on his lips led her to believe so.

Again, she leaned over him and touched her ear to his heart. No sound at all. Her fingers, pressing to his neck didn’t detect a pulse. Her muddled brain focused on the stain of froth drying on his lips. Could it be a stroke? She reached for the glass he must have drunk from, the one nearly empty, and sniffed. Unaware if poison had a scent and equally unaware of what amber liquid it held.

She couldn’t decide if the odor smelled the same in both glasses.

A new day rang in with the chime of midnight from the hall clock. She needed to send Charlie with a whistle to the corner hoping a night watchman stood nearby.

Gripping the collar on her night rail her gaze shifted as Uncle Basil’s head plopped backward. Gently she swept her fingertips over his eyes closing them as she forced back a wave of pain so strong, she could have fainted. Her grip on the desk steadied her as memories of their life swam before her.

She felt she would die without him.

For certain, he had gone to his heavenly reward.

How long she hovered over him, she knew not. A sense of practicality wandered into her thinking. Breathing deeply, she needed to be strong and think.

Just yesterday he talked of his financial state and what she would have to deal with after he died. Did he know he might lose his life? Did he look into the eyes of his murderer knowing what was to come?

Nausea curdled her stomach. Gulping air, she did her best to stifle the impulse to regurgitate. Who would murder this wonderful gentleman?

The why escaped her as she realized what this meant for the household, small as it was with a housekeeper, cook, and two maids. And, Charlie Bates the all-around man.

Uncle Basil had taught her to keep the household ledgers. She knew that beyond the fact she had lost her dearest and last relative, they could be in dire straits soon. She assumed his pension from Her Majesty would end with his demise. Clasping a hand over her mouth, she realized the staff would have to be let go.

She mustn’t forget Uncle Basil’s estranged wife, Mrs. Reynolds-Walker. She would need to be told, which meant a visit to her home. Tamsin had always found it difficult to feel any consideration toward her. She hardly knew the woman who’d spent less than a month in this house when the two had married many years earlier. 

Barely six at the time, Tamsin didn’t know the particulars of their separation. But maids do tittle-tattle, and she had a naughty habit of quietly listening as they gossiped. Mrs. Reynolds-Walker agreed to part as soon as he could procure a home for her.

He had also settled a yearly stipend allowing her independence. As the years sped by, she hardly saw the woman whose visits were infrequent and usually to do with a repair on her home, or her carriage. Her visits had always involved money.

Tamsin drew a palm over her uncle’s forehead. She felt no regrets about Mrs. Reynolds-Walker’s loss of income or home. Ironically, her prosperity would diminish along with Tamsin’s household.

The great clock in the hall chimed the half-hour.

He must be at the heavenly gates by now. St. Peter would certainly rejoice when greeteing him.

The pain in her heart caused her breath to catch and she almost swooned. Her palms cupped his face, the stubble on his cheeks comforting. He still felt warm, perhaps, a bit less. Her instinct to cover him with the wrap that was slung over the easy chair in the corner seemed silly. She chided herself for the foolish thought.

And that thought forced her to consider the coming day and the maids. She glanced at the calendar on his desk. Tomorrow—well, today—a two o’clock meeting with Mr. Manchin. The two men had worked together for decades at Her Majesty’s Secret Service. Her uncle retired several years ago. He’d been a Lieutenant Detective in Her Majesty’s service at Scotland Yard and continued to dabble in lesser cases of murder, theft, vagrants, prostitutes, and predators. He had occasion to remind Tamsin the population on the streets of London burst with all manner of mankind.

Tamsin went to the window and pulled back the drape enough to see outside and the pale pools of light from the lamps that seemed to disappear with the thickening fog. Layers of reds and oranges would begin to color the inky sky in another hour or so.

She pulled the drape into place and took hold of herself.

For certain, she wasn’t ready to let anyone know her beloved uncle was gone.

If we are to get on with living here, I must put you somewhere safe—-for a day or two until I can think of something better.

She pulled a large quilt from the wardrobe in her room and laid it out on the floor next to his chair then slid him onto the blanket. Folding the blanket over him she dragged him through the hall and the kitchen, thankful for the smooth oak flooring.

She knew enough about the law to realize she tampered with a crime scene. Though if he died of a stroke, it wouldn’t be a crime scene. She felt deeply disturbed about her decision and was compelled to hide him. Opening the kitchen door, she tugged him down the few steps onto the damp grass then quietly closed the door.

With a sliver of moonlight intermittingly streaking the foggy night, she knew it would take every ounce of determination to get the blanket to the latched doors of the cellar; tug she must and reached for the ends of the blanket.

Tears clouded her vision as she thought how they would all get on without him. She stilled, hands on the blanket and bowed her head.

I love you so much. She swiped at the wetness on her lashes, took a deep breath and jerking on the blanket, dug in her slippers, and slowly trudged toward the latched doors one step at a time dragging his remains across the damp lawn. Thankfully the thick foggy mist covered her actions as she murmured, I will find out what happened to you or all the times you talked to me about your work will be meaningless.

Turning the lock over, and lifting the door, she cringed at the metallic squeak and held her breath as the deep night rustle of branches appeared normal. Satisfied she’d not awakened Charlie, she took hold of the blanket and whispered as if Uncle Basil still lived.

Forgive my bumbling.

He slid easily downward over the steps into the earthen floor, though she cringed at the disrespect to his dear self. The shifting clouds intermittently allowed a pale slice of light to guide her as she maneuvered his body toward the back of the dugout where the sharp scent of parsnips and turnips filled the air. Potatoes and carrots also mingled in the musky air. Cook Ames’ makings for horseradish assailed her.

Dragging the blanket behind a store of empty crates and unused items, she tucked him into a corner where she secured the blanket about him, then placed several empty crates in such a fashion that anyone entering the space would not think to scavenge beyond. She sat for a moment and slid her hand beneath the blanket noticing the heat of his body evaporating. Her fingers swept through his thick reddish head of hair as she calmed herself. Her heart ached with the loss of him the hard realization of his death beginning to seep into her heart.

This was no time to shed tears. Not yet. He would stay alive in her heart until she solved how he died.

She couldn’t help but think of the second glass of spirits. That alone gave her pause to consider murder. That and the front door and gate left open—and the little crystals of froth on his lips. Her throat tightened to think of the unsuspecting pain he must have felt if it were poison.

Closing her eyes, she prayed in the dark, whispering to her beloved uncle.

If I’ve learned anything from you it’s resilience. I’ll pursue the truth Uncle Basil, or I’m not the niece you raised.

One last look at the contents of the stone and mortar walls with the dirt floor, she felt he was secure and stepped up and out, closing and latching the doors. She kicked up her slippers in the damp grass on the walk back to the house, effectively hiding the drag marks.

Returning to the house, Tamsin cleaned any trace of having hauled a blanket down the hallway and kitchen. She hid the two glasses behind books in the library, arranging them to look normal and set the decanter on the floor behind a stack of books.

Glancing over his desktop, knowing how fastidious he’d always been about leaving his work area in precise tidiness for the next day’s business, she firmed up a stack of papers.

Overcome with the tragedy, her sense of well-being shattered. How would she carry on without him? How does one pretend to be normal, when the most important part of one’s life is wrenched from them?

The hall clock chimed the full Westminster Quarters and stroked the fourth hour. After one last cursory glance about the library, she scooped up the candle and climbed the stairs to her room. In the morning, it would be important to be refreshed and answer the obvious questions about his whereabouts.

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