Death at Bishop's Keep

Table of Contents

 

... in which our detectives Kate Ardleigh and Sir Charles Sheridan meet for the first time as they are drawn into a lurid conspiracy ...

... in which two mysterious deaths bring Kate and Sir Charles together once more to solve the secrets of Gallows Green ...

... in which Charles and Kate discover that even the highest levels of society are no refuge from the lowest of deeds—such as murder . . .

 

... in which newlyweds Charles and Kate Sheridan begin their lives at Bishop's Keep—only to find a new mystery right in their own backyard ...

“I read it with enjoyment ... I found myself burning for the injustices of it, and caring what happened to the people.”

—Anne Perry

“I couldn't put it down.”
—Murder
&
Mayhem

“An intriguing mystery ... skillfully unraveled.”

—Jean Hager, author of
Blooming Murder

“Absolutely riveting ... An extremely articulate, genuine mystery, with well-drawn, compelling characters.”

—
Meritorious Mysteries

“An absolutely charming book... An adventure worth reading ... You're sure to enjoy it.”—
Romantic Times

DEATH AT BISHOP'S KEEP
DEATH AT GALLOWS GREEN
DEATH AT DAISY'S FOLLY
DEATH AT DEVIL'S BRIDGE
DEATH AT ROTTINGDEAN
DEATH AT WHITECHAPEL
DEATH AT EPSOM DOWNS
DEATH AT DARTMOOR
DEATH AT GLAMIS CASTLE
DEATH IN HYDE PARK
DEATH AT BLENHEIM PALACE
DEATH ON THE LIZARD

 

THYME OF DEATH
WITCHES' BANE
HANGMAN'S ROOT
ROSEMARY REMEMBERED
RUEFUL DEATH
LOVE LIES BLEEDING
CHILE DEATH
LAVENDER LIES

MISTLETOE MAN
BLOODROOT
INDIGO DYING
AN UNTHYMELY DEATH
A DILLY OF A DEATH
DEAD MAN'S BONES
BLEEDING HEARTS
SPANISH DAGGER

 

CHINA BAYLES' BOOK OF DAYS

 

Beatrix Potter Mysteries by
Susan
Wittig Albert

THE TALE OF HILL TOP FARM
THE TALE OF HOLLY HOW
THE TALE OF CUCKOO BROW WOOD
THE TALE OF HAWTHORN HOUSE

 

WRITING FROM LIFE
WORK OF HER OWN

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

 

DEATH AT BISHOP'S KEEP

 

A Berkley Prime Crime Book I published by arrangement with the authors

 

PRINTING HISTORY
Avon Books edition / October 1994
Berldey Prime Crime mass-market edition / July 1998

Copyright © 1994 by Susan Wittig Albert and William J. Albert.

 

All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form
without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in
violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

 

eISBN : 978-1-440-67291-0

 

 

BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME
Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
The name BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the BERKLEY PRIME CRIME design
are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

 

 

 

Our deep appreciation goes to Ruby Hild and her late husband, Ron, without whose introduction to East Anglia and to things British this book would never have been written. We are also grateful to our longtime friend Reginald Wright Barker for allowing us to use his collection of photography books.

—LOUISA MAY ALCOTT,
to her friend Alf Whitman

“I am in just the mood for a ghostly tale, a scene of mystery, a startling revelation, and where shall I look for an obliging magician to gratify me?”

“Here!”

—LOUISA MAY ALCOTT “The Fate of the Forrests”

 

 

 

K
ate Ardleigh glanced warily over her shoulder. The late-summer night was black as the pit and stormy, lighted by the intermittent blue-white glare of lightning flashes. The wind skittered like a mad thing through Manhattan's nearly empty streets, twisting Kate's sensible skirt about her ankles and flapping the chestnut vendor's sign. It was precisely the sort of wild night on which Felix Farmore had kidnapped Pearl St. John, in Kate's second story, “Missing Pearl, Or The Lost Heiress.” And it was in just such a shadowy street that Felix had apprehended Pearl and borne her off to her fate.

But the figure that Kate saw behind the passing two-horse omnibus was nothing like the fictitious Farmore. It was quite real, and familiar, too, for she had seen it yesterday as well. She quickened her pace, lifting her skirt to avoid a pile of horse droppings and ducking behind a brewery wagon piled with wooden kegs. He (for Kate was quite certain that it was a man, stout and bowler-hatted) had followed her yesterday. And this evening, he had followed her ever since she had left the Fifth Avenue offices of the Frank Leslie Publishing House, where she had finally procured payment for “Missing Pearl.” She fisted her gloved hands in the pockets of her trim-fitting jacket and drew her brows together, her apprehension mixed with more than a little annoyance.

In point of fact, Kate would not have been abroad on the streets on a Tuesday evening, a good hour after the closing of the shops, if Mr. Bothwell Coxford, a haughty, self-important assistant editor of
Frank Leslie's Popular Monthly,
had not kept her waiting for the greater part of the afternoon. It was only as the electric lamps were being lighted that a clerk had brought her a bank draft for $225, an amount that would permit her to pay Mrs. Murchison the rent and see her comfortably situated until she had finished her next serial story, which she had tentatively titled “Amber's Amulet, Or The Conspiracy of Death.” The money was worth walking a total of forty blocks to fetch, even if the wild night threatened rain.

Kate gave another furtive glance over her shoulder and quickened her step. The shadow had gained ground and was closing fast. Most women would have been frightened to death in such a circumstance, but Kate, independent and self-sufficient, was not given to fright. She stepped decisively around the corner and into the pale halo that encircled the street lamp in front of the Ninth Street Police Station.

The station's stone staircase descended solidly to the pavement and a reassuring light glowed behind the frosted glass door. It was here that her uncle, Sean O‘Malley, served as detective sergeant. Uncle Sean was probably at home, presiding over pot roast and potatoes with Aunt Maureen and the two youngest O'Malleys. But inside the station Kate could hear the thunderous voice of Inspector Duggan, the night sergeant, bawling into the recently installed telephone in a voice loud enough to be heard in Brooklyn. If she were to confront the shadowy figure, she had best do it here, where a loud scream would summon reinforcements.

Kate slipped into the shadow of the stairs and waited, holding her breath, until Bowler-Hat turned the corner. He hesitated, stroking his handlebar mustache as he searched the empty street. Then she stepped out and accosted him with greater boldness than she felt, speaking in a firm, unfaltering voice.

“Please be good enough, sir,” she said, lifting her chin, “to tell me why you are following me.”

Bowler-Hat's mustache twitched and his beefy face registered surprise, alarm, and chagrin, in that order. He hunched his shoulders and shifted his feet uncomfortably, his garments exuding the smoky seasoning of cigars and garlic. Then he collected himself, straightened his shoulders, and cleared his throat.