Death Below A Restless Moon

DEATH BELOW A RESTLESS MOON BLYTHE BAKER Copyright © 2023 by Blythe Baker All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. CONTENTS Description Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 About the Author * * * When Victoria Sedgewick’s cousin falls under suspicion for a crime she did not commit, Victoria must protect her. But with a new danger arising at home and trouble threatening her friendship with Branwell Keats, will Victoria be too distracted to prevent a horrific tragedy? * * * 1 Upon arriving at home, I found myself rather exhausted. And why shouldn’t I be? I had spent the better part of a fortnight snooping around the home of my late husband’s family, investigating the mysterious circumstances surrounding my father-in-law’s illness. Not only had I managed to locate who it was that was trying to kill him – a maid with a personal vendetta against the family that stole the home of her previous masters – but I had also managed to land myself in harm’s way once again when that servant declared that she intended to eliminate all members of the Sedgewick household, which happened to include my son and I. Exhaustion followed me all the way on the long journey home to London, where I looked forward to some time of rest and recuperation, perhaps while sifting through letters of new potential clients for my private inquiry business. It had been somewhat quiet as of late, and while I still was not entirely excited at the idea of finding someone’s lost cat, or perhaps reconnecting a client with a long lost friend, taking on such work was becoming quite tempting as these were tasks that would likely pay well enough. Although I had just solved a case of murder, or at least attempted murder, I continued to long for something more exciting…just not concerning anyone in my family again. I wished to help strangers find the answers they sought, not continually find them for myself. Much to my surprise, Mr. Keats, the private inquirer with whom I had a great many dealings recently, had come to my aid after the letter I had sent him about my father-in-law’s case had concerned him. Rushing to Yorkshire, he had arrived in time to help confront the delusional maid and tie up the loose ends with me. But upon seeing me safely back home, he had taken his leave. My thoughts still lingered briefly on Mr. Keats, as I made my way down the hall toward the study, but they were soon brushed away. In my heart, I was sorry to see him go so soon, but upon hearing of a letter from my dear cousin, curiosity had taken hold. Especially when my butler, Warrington, said it was an urgent matter. Mr. Keats’ retreating figure danced at the edge of my thoughts, the slight tip of his top hat both familiar and comforting, as I stepped into the study. “It is there on your writing desk, madam,” Mrs. Bell, my housekeeper, said as she followed after me into the room. I set down my traveling hat and pulled the gloves from my hands, one fingertip at a time, as I took my seat at the desk. The letter was there, just waiting to be opened. I pulled the letter opener from the drawer, glancing briefly up at Mrs. Bell. “When did the letter arrive?” I asked. “Only a few days ago,” Mrs. Bell said. “Saturday, I believe? But the messenger came Monday morning, insisting that you read it as soon as possible.” I slid the letter opener, a gleaming silver blade with my father’s name inscribed upon the mirrored surface, beneath the edge of the paper and tugged gently. The envelope fell open, like an eager mouth awaiting its next meal. “It is unlike my cousin to be so impatient,” I muttered to myself. “I wonder what troubles her?” My dearest Victoria, I must apologize for my lapse in communication these past weeks. Life has been nothing short of interesting as of late. I received a letter just two days ago, and to my great surprise, I discovered it was from our cousin, Beatrice. “Beatrice?” I asked aloud, my brow furrowing as I stared at the page. Had I read that correctly? And yes, dear cousin, you have read that name correctly. I can only imagine your face at this moment! I smirked. “Good news after all, madam?” Mrs. Bell asked. She had taken to tidying the pillows on the settee as I read, fluffing and rearranging until they were straight enough for her liking. “Only that my cousin certainly knows me well enough,” I said. I confess I was just as surprised as you must be. Beatrice? I thought for certain that she had retired somewhere in the country, choosing as she always did to keep to herself and have as little contact with the rest of the world as possible. “I thought she had left England altogether and was now living in Scotland,” I murmured. “Or was it Ireland?” Regardless, she began her letter with the most pleasant kindnesses. She asked after my health, as well as that of my husband – imagine my surprise when I discovered she knew I had married in the first place – and remembered a great deal about my life that I do not recall telling her. It must have been my mother, surely. That woman’s desire to share information truly knows no bounds. My smirk grew wider. “Dear Aunt Clarice…forever sticking her nose where it does not belong,” I said. Even as I read her letter, I had wondered how she might