Death at Gallows Green

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 Hage, 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
A DILLY OF A DEATH
DEAD MAN'S BONES
BLEEDING HEARTS
SPANISH DAGGER
NIGHTSHADE

 

AN UNTHYMELY DEATH
CHINA BAYLES' BOOK OF DAYS

 

 

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

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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 etablishements, 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 GALLOWS GREEN

 

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

Copyright © 1995 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.

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ISBN : 978-1-440-67294-1

 

 

BERKLEY ® PRIME CRIME
PRIME CRIME Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) lnc,
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

T
he gentle southern breeze that riffled the fresh green grass of the Essex meadows was mild and fragrant. Both sides of Lamb's Lane were strewn with lacework of celandine and angel eyes and stichwort, and a glossy blackbird showered the hawthorn hedge with his courtship song. Amelia walked with a watchful trepidation, her heart beating as she scanned the hedgerows for a sign of Lawrence. Once or twice, she glanced back in the direction of Mrs. Windell's garden to make sure that none of the members of the Girls' Friendly Society had seen her steal away. It was unlikely that they had, for the group was large and celebratory and Mrs. Windell and the parish ladies were greatly harried by the exigencies of teapot and tea tray.

But the cucumber sandwiches and fresh strawberry tarts on the tables in Mrs. Windell's garden would shortly be eaten and the program would begin. It was to consist of a dramatic reading of “Napoleon at Waterloo” by Mr. Windell, a recitation by the Infants of the National School (dressed for the occasion as fairies, barefoot and with tulle wings stiffened with wire), and several songs by the school's monitress, Miss Flora Watson, among them “Home, Dearie, Home” and “Because,” which always made Amelia's sentimental heart melt within her. Sadly, Amelia's errand required her to forgo these delightful entertainments, but the afternoon was short, and she had to be back at Bishop's Keep to help Mrs. Pratt with tea. It was true that her mistress, Miss Ardleigh, was away at a house party near Long Melford, but all the other servants would be there, and Amelia would be missed if she were absent. Mrs. Pratt had allowed her an extra half day to attend the annual garden party given for the young women in service in the parish, and she would be livid if she suspected Amelia of exploiting the occasion for a hole-and-corner rendezvous. So if Amelia were to see Lawrence at all, it would have to be during the program.

Amelia's chestnut hair was thick and shiny, her eyes were cornflower blue, and she was wearing her best dress, a white lawn with a frill of knitted lace pinned at the throat and a narrow flounce at the hem. Lawrence, the handsome, dark-haired footman at neighbouring Marsden Manor, would not be her last lover, but he was her first, and the anticipation of their meeting brought a deeper blush to her already pink cheeks.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, as if surprised and even frightened by the sudden large hands that spanned her slim waist. And then “Oh” again, as the hands whirled her around, and “oh,” quite muffled, as Lawrence boldly kissed her, her small hands beating in a pretense of resistance against his broad shoulders.

“Lawrence, you naughty!” she exclaimed, when she was released and could breathe again. “Not in the lane! We'll be spied!”

“We cud go through th' 'edgerow, then,” Lawrence suggested with a sly grin, possessing himself of her hand. He pointed. “That's th' back o' Mr. McGregor's garden, below 'is apple trees. Wudn't be spied on there, now wud we?”

Amelia's answer was a rosy giggle, and in another minute the two had slipped through a twiggy gap in the hedge and into the green and silent garden beyond, where after a moment's warm embrace, a flurry of kisses, and more stifled giggles, Lawrence tugged his pretty charmer in the direction of a thickly wooded copse.

“I can't,” Amelia said, resisting. “I have t' get back.”

“Wot's yer 'urry?” Lawrence asked, teasing her forward a step. “There'll be songs fer an hour.” His smile was guileless. “Anyway, we're jes goin' t' sit a minnit er two. Won't ‘urt t' bide a bit, will it?”

“We-e-ll,” Amelia said slowly, allowing herself to be persuaded in the direction of the copse. Who knows what improprieties Lawrence might have tempted her to, had they not come upon an unexpected huddle of navy serge, deep in a thorny blackberry tangle.

Amelia stepped back, startled. “Who's that?” she exclaimed.

“Dunno,” Lawrence said, pushing the burgeoning undergrowth aside and bending over for a better look. “A gypsy, I reckon. Sleepin'. There's a flock of 'em camped in th' field at Bailey's Farm.”

“That's no gypsy,” Amelia hissed to Lawrence's bent back. “Not in that getup. An' he's not asleep, 'cause his eyes is open. He's drunk.” She wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Come away, Lawrence, an' leave th' man be. I don' want him to see us.”