July 8, 1920, is probably the worst day of Constance Grey’s life. Worse than her father’s death, losing her home, and putting aside her dream of becoming a mathematician. Instead of delivering a new dress to Lady Diana Dunbarton, Constance finds the celebrated beauty dead in her bedroom. Police Inspector Edwards initially believes Lady Dunbarton’s death was an accident or a suicide. Having known Diana since she was a child, Constance is certain it was neither. She must find out the truth about what happened to her brilliant friend.
But Constance already has a full-time job keeping the books for her sister Viviane’s dressmaking establishment, The House of Grey. She has none of the resources of a professional investigator, just her logical mind and Viviane’s complete support. Together the sisters must delve into some of London’s darkest corners to piece together Diana’s final hours.
July 8, 1920, is probably the worst day of Constance Grey’s life. Worse than her father’s death, losing her home, and putting aside her dream of becoming a mathematician. Instead of delivering a new dress to Lady Diana Dunbarton, Constance finds the celebrated beauty dead in her bedroom. Police Inspector Edwards initially believes Lady Dunbarton’s death was an accident or a suicide. Having known Diana since she was a child, Constance is certain it was neither. She must find out the truth about what happened to her brilliant friend.
But Constance already has a full-time job keeping the books for her sister Viviane’s dressmaking establishment, The House of Grey. She has none of the resources of a professional investigator, just her logical mind and Viviane’s complete support. Together the sisters must delve into some of London’s darkest corners to piece together Diana’s final hours.
Thursday, July 8, 1920, morning
Overcast, cool.
Dunbarton House impressed most visitors with its grandeur, but what always impressed Constance Grey most was its hush. Though in the heart of London, with its windows shut against the rain the noise of the city vanished in its vastness, and the servants moved with no more noise than shadows over its thick carpets. The under-butler brought her a cup of tea and disappeared as silently as he had come, leaving her to wonder how much longer Diana would keep her waiting. It was unlike her friend to be anything but punctual. Constance had just touched the teacup to her lips when a piercing scream tore through the house’s stillness. She stood up abruptly, sloshing the scalding tea all over her hands, the saucer, and the floor. Gripping the delicate china tightly despite her discomfort, she looked about for a place to perch the pair. As every piece of furniture in her friend’s little sitting room looked likely to be damaged by the spilled tea, she had just decided to abandon them on the floor when the door to Diana’s bedroom burst open and Diana’s tiny French maid came shrieking into the room.
“What on earth is the matter, Delaine?” Constance demanded. The maid began sobbing into her hands. An enormous footman plowed into the room from the corridor, followed closely by the under-butler, Braxton.
“Miss Delaine? Whatever is the matter?” Braxton inquired. In reply she only pointed, wailing, in the direction of Diana’s bedroom. Constance, still holding her dripping cup and saucer, walked across the sitting room, and stopped short at the bedroom doorway. Braxton and the footman followed just behind her. With her free hand, she reached blindly to the doorframe to steady herself, unable to look away from the scene before her.
Inside the bedroom, the curtains still drawn to block out the cloudy midmorning sky, Constance saw Diana’s motionless body lying haphazardly on her bed among a pile of rumpled pillows. Her head was thrown back, her white-gold hair a silvery nimbus in the dim light. The bedclothes lay in an untidy heap by her feet, and a trail of something pink and frothy ran from her open mouth over the front of her beautiful oyster satin nightdress. Her eyes stared fixedly ahead of her, focused on something far beyond this world, her fingers clenched on the white sheet. The diamond on her left hand, large as a pigeon’s egg, glinted. She was clearly dead.
Braxton’s voice recalled Constance to herself. She backed up from the doorway and quietly pulled the door closed. The footman had disappeared, but Delaine was still sobbing by the window. Constance turned to Braxton and found him hanging up the telephone. Though his face was drained of color, the highly polished mask of the career servant remained in place. He smoothly pulled out Diana’s delicate little desk chair for her with one hand and took the cup and saucer from her with the other as he said, “I have telephoned his lordship’s club, Miss Grey, and left a message. I’m sure his lordship will be returning shortly. I’ve sent the footman to close the house to visitors and to alert the housekeeper and Mr. Thripp.”
Constance sat down and thought for a moment. Undoubtedly it was the correct decision to wait for the arrival of Diana’s husband. However, it disturbed her mind the slightest bit. Surely Alec would not insist on tidying Diana up, on obscuring what had been a truly terrible death? Constance realized that she was not at all sure on this point. And yet it was really no business of hers to interfere, although she had known Diana far longer than Alec James Portmore Dunbarton ever had, or would, now.
“Very good, Braxton,” she said finally. “I will sit here with Mademoiselle Delaine, who is in no fit state to be left alone, until his lordship arrives.” Braxton nodded, plainly relieved not to have to take charge of the Frenchwoman, who was now whispering to herself in her native tongue and pacing in front of the cold hearth with her arms wrapped around her chest. He slipped out as Constance went over to Mademoiselle Delaine.
When she finally got the woman making some sense, Constance thought she grasped the essentials of what Diana had been doing for the last twenty-four hours. Her ladyship had arrived in London from the country around three the previous day, and in between tea and dinner had made several telephone calls to her friends, letting them know that she was in town. Lord Dunbarton was already in London dealing with some business matters, and he joined her ladyship for dinner at a small Italian restaurant whose name Delaine could not remember. Lady Dunbarton returned to the house and retired early, although his lordship did not return with her.
“Was she feeling all right?” Constance asked. “Not suffering one of her terrible headaches?”
“No, Mademoiselle, she was just a bit fatigued from travel,” Delaine replied. “That is why I did not disturb her this morning. Often in the past few weeks she wanted no breakfast, and that is what she requested last evening. I was surprised that she had not yet rung when you had arrived for your appointment,” she said, gesturing toward the muslin-wrapped gown Constance had brought with her that morning, now lying forlornly over the back of a Windsor chair. “I never supposed, never . . . .” Here she broke into a fresh round of sobs. Constance maneuvered her into the little desk chair and absently handed over her own handkerchief. Why was she not crying? Diana had been the best friend she had in the world. It must be shock, Constance told herself firmly. Even I am not that heartless.
Fortunately, she did not have to dwell too long on the state of her heart. The corridor door opened, and the Earl rushed through the study to the bedroom. Constance got up and followed, only to be brought up short once again in the doorway. Lord Dunbarton had fallen to his knees at the foot of Diana’s bed and covered his face with his hands. He stayed there, unmoving, for an uncomfortably long time before rising and backing out the way he had come, shutting the bedroom door gently as he came out. Then he turned around and stumbled blindly into the little settee by the fireplace, almost falling backward into it. From the corridor came the sound of a throat clearing.
“My lord,” rasped an elderly voice, and Constance turned to see Thripp, the butler, entering the room. “My lord, I have telephoned Dr. Folkstone, her ladyship’s regular physician.” At Thripp’s words Constance could see Lord Dunbarton consciously working to master himself.
“Thank you, Thripp,” he said. “Perhaps we could wait for his arrival just out in the library? Delaine could return to her room, of course.” He gestured into the hallway and Mrs. Rushford, housekeeper of Dunbarton House, swept in, whisking Delaine out in a swirl of her black skirts. Lord Dunbarton followed them out, and Constance walked in his wake through the corridor and down the stairs, then around to the back of the house to the paneled library. A fire had been started here, she noted, against the unseasonable cool and gloom of the day. Alec Dunbarton walked over and stood before it, and she could see his teeth chattering.
“Sit down,” Constance ordered, and he started and turned to her, then obeyed. He had forgotten I was even here, she thought. “You are in shock. You know all about it from the war. I will fix you a whisky and soda.” She went over to the tantalus in the corner of the room and took out a glass, decanter, and siphon. Once he had drunk it, he kept the glass in his hands, turning it round and peering into its depths.
“Boyish” was the word generally used to describe Alec Dunbarton. He had a pale, handsome face, floppy hair that was sandy in color, a long, thin neck, and a ready smile. He and Diana had made a lovely couple. The newspapers always commented on how unfair it was that both had been blessed with good looks and large fortunes. Alec had never quite seemed to believe his luck that Diana had chosen him. Constance couldn’t always believe it, either. Alec was attractive, of course, but Diana had been so much cleverer, so much less interested in parties and shooting and the latest dance from America. Constance had sometimes caught her watching Alec with bemusement and occasionally a grimace of frustration.
But now, she thought, no one would be likely to use the word boyish to describe Alec. His skin had gone grey, his mouth was slack, and as he sat huddled over his glass, he reminded her of the war veterans she saw on the street corners on her way to work, old before their time. Alec had served in the war, of course. Several photographs of his regiment faced her now in one of the bookcases, framed in silver. Most had been taken during the war, but one looked more recent, the men all in civilian dress, their smiles broad but their eyes tired.
Eighteen more minutes passed before the door opened and Sir Ian Folkstone entered, his mouth pressed into a grim slash mark. Without saying a word, he went over to Lord Dunbarton and sat down beside him, picked up his wrist and timed the pulse with his fingers. He gave Constance a nod and the briefest of smiles. “Well done, young lady. The worst of the shock has passed.” He then addressed the hunched young man. “Lord Dunbarton, it is my opinion that we should telephone the police immediately. There is no question of this being a natural death.”
Dunbarton continued staring into the fire, turning the glass in his hands. “Very well,” he replied listlessly. “What can it matter now?” Sir Ian rang for Thripp and then stood in the doorway talking to him so quietly Constance could not make out what was being said. When he had finished, the physician turned to Constance.
“The police will undoubtedly want to question Lord Dunbarton, but afterwards I have left instructions for his valet to put him to bed. Were you here when Lady Dunbarton’s death was discovered?” Constance nodded. “Then the police will want to see you as well. I will remain here until they arrive and then return to Harley Street. It will be helpful for the physician who examines her to see her medical history. I believe Lord Dunbarton has no other family?”
Constance understood what he was asking. “No, Sir Ian, his mother died when he was a young child and his father last winter. His two older brothers were killed in the war. I will telephone Diana’s cousin, Eveline, whom I know well, and a few of his close friends. The staff will be sure he’s looked after.”
The day passed swiftly from morning to afternoon as the police arrived and began moving through the house. After placing a call to the House of Grey and giving Viviane the terrible news, Constance was just about to begin notifying Alec’s friends of Diana’s death when one of the downstairs maids brought her a luncheon tray. Constance found to her surprise that she was able to finish the entire plate, though she hadn’t felt much of an appetite. She rang and the little maid reappeared, hesitating before she took up the tray.
“P’raps yer ladyship would like to freshen up, a bit?” she asked. Alarmed, Constance caught a glimpse of her reflection in the glass doors of one of the bookcases and nodded her assent, following the young woman to a small washroom around the corner equipped with a full set of combs and brushes. Constance checked over her appearance from head to toe, hearing her sister Viviane’s reminders in her head. She used the heavy silver hairbrush to corral her short chestnut waves into order and polished the lenses of her glasses, then used the clothes brush on the outside of her good gray wool suit jacket and skirt and checked that the seams of her stockings were straight. Constance never wore makeup. If Viviane were there, she would have rolled her eyes and told her sister to pinch her cheeks, at least, to bring some color to her slightly sallow complexion. Constance looked harder at her face in the mirror, her brown eyes slightly obscured behind her glasses under heavy, arching brows, her unadorned mouth relaxed into its usual thin, straight line above her pointed chin, and thought it wouldn’t make any difference to anyone, so she left the washroom and returned to the library.
Constance retrieved Dunbarton’s address book from his desk and began the unpleasant process of calling those she knew to be his close friends. They were all bally-ho types, normally full of hearty laughs, who were reduced to bewildered silence at her words. Only Eveline seemed to take the news in stride. She immediately focused on the practical matters. Typical, Constance thought, of a woman, and then chided herself: that was her mother talking. It was typical of Eveline, though: she had been practical even as a teenager and serving as a nurse in the war had only enhanced this part of her personality.
“Good God – how is Alec taking it? No, don’t answer, I know he’s an absolute disaster. Would it be helpful for me to come take things in hand?” When Constance agreed this would be best, Eveline said, “I’ll be on the next train from Haslemere. I can just make it if I leave now. I’ve got quite a lot of things in my bedroom there, so I’ve no need to pack. Diana let me keep my town things in London.” Let, Constance noted. Not lets. How like Eveline to be so precise. The door to the library opened and one of the police detectives entered. He gestured to her.
“I’m so sorry Eveline, I have to speak to the police now. I will tell the staff to expect you this evening.” Constance hung up the telephone and came around the desk.
“Good afternoon,” the man said. “I’m Inspector Edwards, and I’ve been placed in charge of this investigation.” It was Constance’s first time examining a police inspector at close quarters, and she had to admit that he was not at all what she expected. Unlike the caricatures in Punch of ham-fisted bobbies with piggish eyes and drooping bellies, Edwards was tall and extremely thin, with attenuated fingers he placed demurely on his knees. As he sat down in one of the chairs by the fire she saw that although his posture was relaxed, his eyes were watchful under his hooded brows.
“Have you ever met a police inspector before?” he asked with a kind smile. This was so near her thoughts that Constance, despite herself, felt a bit unnerved.
“No,” she replied, “everything I know about the police comes from reading, mostly from the newspapers.”
“Well, then you likely have no high opinion of us,” he observed, and the edges of his mouth twitched in suppressed laughter. Then his face settled into a more solemn expression as he returned to the matter at hand. “I hope that by the end of this investigation that we will have acquitted ourselves well enough to merit your admiration.”
“Then there is to be an investigation?” Constance asked. Thank the Lord Alec wasn’t going to prevent an inquiry. “A murder investigation?”
“Why murder?” Edwards asked.
“Well, what are the other options? Suicide, or accident? The doctor stated plainly it could not be from natural causes.”
“No,” he replied, “although I do believe that Dr. Folkstone spoke a bit in haste on that point. It would of course not look well for his own patient to have died of something he might have prevented.”
“Well, I think suicide is absolutely out of the question,” Constance said.
“Why don’t we begin at the beginning. Had you known Lady Dunbarton long?”
“Yes,” Constance replied, feeling the tears that would not come earlier beginning to prick at her eyes. She willed them away, sitting up straighter. Tears would not help Diana, her mother’s voice warned. They would only convince this police inspector that she was a silly female. “Her father’s estate was adjacent to the house where I grew up. She was Viviane’s friend first – Viviane is my older sister – but she was between us in ages. We all ended up being quite good friends.” Constance could see confusion on Inspector Edwards’ face.
“I was told that you were her ladyship’s dressmaker,” Edwards remarked with furrowed brows. “Have I been misinformed?”
“No, that’s true,” Constance said. “In brief, Inspector, I am the daughter of the Baron of Hawstead. Diana is the . . . was the daughter of the Baron of Inverseigh. We grew up as neighbors. My only male cousin died before the war, and my father died in the influenza epidemic, in December of 1918. Neither Viviane nor I could inherit the title or the estate, and there was no other male heir that the solicitors could come up with, so the title went extinct. It turned out that my father had been rather better at spending money than making it, and all the property not entailed had to be sold to pay his debts as well as the crown’s death duties. My mother, sister, and I found ourselves homeless and nearly penniless. Fortunately, my mother is a remarkable woman, and together we arrived at a plan for our survival. Viviane always loved art and fashion and has been designing her own ensembles since she was twelve or thirteen years old. She proposed that we open a dressmaking establishment, with herself as the creative director. Mother raised investments from many of her friends and secured work as the directress of a suffrage organization for which she was previously a volunteer. I was in my final year at Wollstonecraft College, and Mother was quite determined that I should finish my studies. She found a generous benefactress to underwrite my final semester, after which I took over the business’s accounts. We are now a year and a half into our venture, Inspector, and we make enough to get by. So, I am both Diana’s dressmaker and one of her oldest friends.”
If any part of her tale surprised Inspector Edwards, he did not remark upon it, but continued with his questions. “Why had you come to see Lady Dunbarton this morning?”
“She telephoned yesterday afternoon and asked me to bring one of the dresses she had ordered for a final trying-on. It’s not something we would do for every client, but Diana was one of our first and best, and aside from that it was an excuse to see her. We didn’t get to spend time with one another very often, except when she was in London.”
“But she was found dead before you could speak to her?”
“Yes,” Constance replied, and then proceeded to recount the morning’s events, including everything down to the spilled tea. Inspector Edwards noted this attention to detail, but again, did not remark upon it.
“What can you tell me about the Dunbartons’ marriage? Apart from what was in the newspapers, I mean.”
Constance smiled a bit sadly. “Yes, the newspapers loved Diana and Alec. The public found their lives such a romantic story. Alec and Diana met at a party, the first Diana had attended as part of her season. Alec fell head over heels for her, and she for him. They were engaged – secretly, of course, since she hadn’t even been presented yet – after their third meeting and they married as soon as they could, in August of 1914. Of course, their families were ecstatic. I think Alec’s parents had always worried he would marry some chorus girl, and I know Diana’s father fretted constantly about fortune hunters and wastrels. Then Alec had to go off to the war, and they didn’t see each other very often until he was demobbed.”
“Would you describe the marriage as a happy one?”
“As happy as most, I suppose. I’m not married myself, Inspector, and my parents’ marriage was not a particularly happy one, so I am not sure that I’m qualified to judge.” Seeing that he was waiting for more elaboration, Constance pressed her lips together and then continued, “For the first four years of their marriage they hardly saw one another. When Alec came back, he wasn’t the same carefree young man who left. His two brothers and many of his friends were killed in the war. Meanwhile, Diana had been waiting, and I think she expected everything to pick up just where they left off, but it didn’t. They weren’t quite so madly and romantically in love any longer. They had different interests, different friends. Diana was quite serious, whereas Alec enjoyed being the man about town. I think taking up the title was something of a strain. He loves parties, loves rushing around. Diana was more contemplative. I know they she had grown concerned about not having any children.”
“Indeed? Was her ladyship upset?” For the first time Edwards leaned forward a little in his chair.
“Not upset, precisely, but she was feeling under a bit of strain. I think Diana disliked the idea that her purpose was to produce an heir. At the same time, she accepted it as her duty. It wasn’t an issue, really, when she married Alec. I believe seeing what happened to my family’s estates after my father’s death also affected her. But we didn’t discuss it in such terms.”
“Of course not. But why would it not have been at issue when they married?”
“Because Alec was the third son. The two brothers who were killed in the war were both older. I don’t think he ever expected to run the whole estate or to have the responsibility of carrying the family name forward.”
“I see.” Inspector Edwards thought for a moment. “And there was nothing that you did discuss with Lady Dunbarton that might have led her to take her own life? An illness, another woman, another man?”
Constance was vaguely shocked. Not that he would suggest infidelity – she sometimes felt she swam in a sea of it – but that he would suggest Diana had strayed. But then, he hadn’t known her. “Diana was very careful about rules. She was always the well-behaved girl, always obedient, she would never have. . . . And she never spoke to me about any concerns, either about Alec or about her own health. She suffered from headaches, occasionally.”
“The butler, a Mr. Thripp?” Constance nodded. “Mr. Thripp tells me that you telephoned a Miss Eveline Ashleigh?”
“Yes, she’s Diana’s cousin. Lord Dunbarton has no close relatives and will need someone to help him. Eveline lived with Diana when they were children, and she spent a great deal of time with them over the last several years. Her mother is in India and she and Diana were virtually each other’s only family in Britain.”
“And she is coming from?”
“From Haslemere, in Surrey. She works there as a companion to an elderly lady.” Edwards’ eyebrows climbed a fraction higher on his brow at this information.
“Very good, Miss Grey. If you would be so kind as to give me your address, in case I have further questions, I would be most obliged.” Constance provided it, watching him write down the information in a little pocket notebook.
“Aren’t you going to ask who I think killed her?”
Edwards blinked. “Who do you think killed her?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea, but I know someone must have. She wouldn’t have killed herself, Inspector.” Again, Constance felt the pricking of tears.
“Yes, well, I’m sure it will all come out over the course of our investigation. Miss Grey, it is highly likely you will be called as a witness at the inquest into Lady Dunbarton’s death. Now, I’ll have Thripp see you out. Good day.”
Constance stepped out of her taxi just as the rain began. Dashing across the sidewalk and up the stoop, she had her key ready. However, as she was scratching at the lock, she felt the door open. Mrs. Harrogate, the housekeeper, pulled her inside the hall and shut the door behind her. Constance had never felt so relieved to be home in all her life. Although it wasn’t at all grand, like the palatial structure she had just left, the small house in Battersea was solidly theirs. There were a few things from their prior house, things too beloved to part with, but nearly all the furnishings were items that she, Viviane, and her mother had chosen on their own. The worn Persian carpets, the artworks by Viviane’s friends, a handful of paintings and photographs salvaged from her father’s collection, and most of all the shelves and shelves of books, neatly ordered by her own hand, welcomed her silently. The best part of the house was the odd little glass conservatory looking out on the postage stamp of back garden, both relics of a Victorian owner with a mania for plants. The most exotic thing in the conservatory these days was a potted palm, but everyone in the house loved the light that washed over the simple rattan furniture Viviane had scrounged from somewhere and painted white. Mrs. Harrogate bustled Constance back to the conservatory and seated her in one of the throne-like chairs, then wrapped her in one of her mother’s delicate Indian shawls.
“Her ladyship will be down directly,” she told Constance, pouring her a cup of the tea that had been waiting on the little brass coffee table. The housekeeper’s hazel eyes narrowed in concern behind her spectacles. “Miss Viviane telephoned a few minutes ago. How she managed to get through the day I don’t know, but she did. She’s left Therese to lock up.”
“There you are dear,” said her mother’s voice, as Constance gratefully took the tea from Mrs. Harrogate. Lady Grey entered in her usual slow, stiff, regal way. Even her concern for her daughter could not overcome her rheumatism. Settling herself in the chair opposite Constance and carefully leaning her stick where it would be out of the way, she said, “I’m afraid you’ve had a most dreadful shock.”
“Yes, Mother. I quite thought we’d gotten to the end of the unexpected deaths, but I suppose one never does.”
“No,” replied Lady Grey. “How did Lord Dunbarton take the news?”
“Badly. I telephoned Eveline, and she is supposed to arrive in town this afternoon or early this evening. I would think she’ll have everything in hand soon enough.”
“Indeed,” Lady Gray said. “Eveline is nothing if not terribly organized. I’m sure she’ll be a great support to Lord Dunbarton, poor man.”
“So, Eveline is swooping in to get everything sorted?” Viviane was striding through the doorway, removing her mackintosh and dripping her umbrella across the conservatory tiles, her ebony chin-length hair starting to curl from the damp. “Constance, I am so, so, sorry.” She briefly rested her hand on her sister’s shoulder, giving it a small squeeze.
“Miss Viviane, take off those wet things at once!” Mrs. Harrogate commanded. Viviane, chastened, allowed the offending items to be removed before serving herself a cup of tea and a large scone. She sat down next to Constance.
“Was it absolutely horrid?”
“Yes. Seeing Diana like that. . . . I won’t ever forget it.”
Lady Grey frowned. “You’ll have to try, dear. It’s not fair to poor Diana otherwise. Such a lovely young woman, always learning, always reading. Once, when she had come to stay with us, I found three separate books lying around Ashleigh Hall, all of which she had been reading simultaneously. One was in Latin!” All of them smiled at the memory.
“You’ll stay home from the shop tomorrow, of course,” Viviane began.
Constance interrupted. “Absolutely not! If I’m away for a day, I spend two days getting all the accounts back in order again. To say nothing of the mess you’ll make in the office.” Viviane opened her mouth to argue.
“Work will be the best thing for Constance,” Lady Grey interjected, and Viviane shut her mouth again, although she looked unconvinced. “Nothing helps one through grief like an occupation.”
Constance ate dinner on a tray in her room that night, her one concession to the difficulty of her day. Although she hadn’t eaten anything since luncheon, this time she found she truly had no appetite and picked at her meal. With the heavy curtains drawn and the fire lit against the unseasonable chill, it might have been October rather than July. It’s something to be grateful for, Constance thought. A warm, clear evening would have contrasted horribly with her mood. Hoping to settle her mind, Constance removed her well-worn mathematics notebook from its place in her desk. She tried to read over her work on the latest proof a favorite old professor had sent to her from Oxford, but found that, for once, the numbers failed to draw her into their soothing, orderly world. She replaced her notebook and pencil carefully in her desk drawer and prepared herself for bed.
Her mother had provided her with a sleeping draught, and as Constance waited for it to take effect, she drew her little photograph album from her bookshelf and began to leaf through it. There was an image of her with Diana when they were around ten or eleven, rowing a boat around Hawstead’s little pond. The photo was blurry – no doubt they were moving. Father had always been at them to stay still for his camera. How many afternoons had they spent on that pond, the boat tied up loosely under the willow tree, dangling their hands and feet into the water? Diana would tell her stories cadged from books of Greek myths and, later, tales from the excavations her father oversaw in Greece. Constance could listen to her voice for hours, the unfamiliar syllables of Greek and Latin like incantations. Strange to think she would never hear that voice again. Returning her attention to the album, she turned over the page and gazed at a posed image of the two of them in the ballroom at Ashleigh Hall, just before Diana’s first ball. Diana stood resplendent in a lovely white gown, a fully grown woman with a string of pearls around her slender white neck and upswept blonde hair. Constance slouched at her side, still trapped in the fattish ungainliness of mid-adolescence, one hand tucked behind her back concealing her spectacles from the camera’s eye. Yet they had remained friends, caught together in the web of serious scholarship that interested so few girls their own ages. And finally, flipping forward a few pages, Constance came to a photograph of Diana and Alec’s wedding. In it the bride and groom posed on the steps of St. George’s, Hanover Square, with the wedding party around them. Constance and Viviane stood on the left in their bridesmaids’ dresses. Constance thought she looked stiff, her long mouth only slightly tipped up at the edges in a smile, her chin looking even more pointed than usual in contrast to the straight horizontal line of the dress’s neckline. Viviane, of course, looked perfect, her dark hair framing her oval face in perfect marcelled waves, her full lips smiling broadly enough to bring out a dimple in each of her cheeks. Constance reminded herself that Viviane was a full-grown woman of nineteen in August of 1914, whereas she was still an adolescent of sixteen. Diana looked radiant. Her heavy lace gown with its pinched waist and full-length veil would be out of favor now, but was the height of fashion at that moment, and still beautiful to Constance. The large diamond in her engagement ring had caught the light, highlighting the bride and groom’s clasped hands. Their mother had been caught with a rather stern expression. Her hair was less gray than it was now, and she held onto her husband’s arm rather than the stick that was now her constant companion. Constance realized with a start that many of the other people in the photograph were no longer alive, including her father, Diana’s father, and both of Alec’s parents. Alec’s two older brothers, cavorting at the edge of the frame, both died in the war. Peter was even more handsome than Alec, taller and less boyish, while Raymond had the same floppy hair but a heavy dusting of freckles. Who might they have been, had they lived? And there, just at the edge of the photograph, was Eveline. In some ways she looked so similar her cousin Diana, with her tall, spare frame, and blonde hair, although hers was a different shade, a dark honey color. Why had she never noticed the expression on Eveline’s face in this photograph before? Unlike most of the people in the picture, she was looking not at the photographer, but at the bride and groom. She was not smiling. Constance was not always adept at identifying people’s emotions. Numbers followed logical rules, and had a specific meaning, but not so the curve of a mouth, the angle of an eyebrow. Eveline certainly did not look happy. Was she angry? Or just caught at the wrong moment? Now that she thought about it, she did remember a bit of a commotion outside the church when the photograph was taken. Constance closed the pages of the album, closing her eyes just before sleep overtook her.
In Diana's Shadow, author Liz Helfrich introduces us to well-educated British aristocrat Constance Grey. With family fortunes dramatically impacted by her father's death and primogeniture, she now occupies an awkward space between aristocracy and trade. A situation that was all too common in the 1920s after thousands of Britain's sons perished in the battles of World War I.
As Constance waits in a drawing-room to visit with her childhood friend, Lady Diana Dunbarton, she hears a scream that tears through the house. Upon investigation, she discovers her friend's motionless body in her bed, with a trail of pink, frothy substance running from her mouth. It is quickly established that her death is due to foul play, but who could have wanted the beautiful and vibrant Diana dead. Is it her husband, Lord Alec James Portmore Dunbarton, or is he truly the grieving widower? Who else could it be? Constance is determined to figure out what has happened, and although it sometimes pains her, she needs to collaborate with Inspector Edwards, who has been assigned to manage the case. She also draws on her mother and sister to help with the investigation and to bounce off her theories about various suspects.
This novel is an intriguing start to a series, and I believe that Constance, her mother and her sister would make an engaging investigative trio with lots of opportunities for encountering murders to solve. However, it is a bit formulaic in sections where the storyline of the mystery needs to progress. I would have liked to see more character development because the conversation flows, but it is hard to get a strong sense of what drives the characters to behave and speak in the way they do. Although the author has undertaken quite a bit of research to inform the novel, some statements are unrealistic. For example, a funeral parlour wouldn't cut off a finger to remove a ring but instead offer to cut the band off a decedent so as to return the ring to the grieving relative. While it doesn't impact the results of this whodunnit, it does create a stumbling block when reading because it is hard to believe the emotional reactions. Much like Agatha Christie's Poirot novels, the details of the murder are summed up well in the conclusion.
I would recommend this mystery to those who enjoyed Carola Dunn's Daisy Dalrymple series or Ashley Weaver's Amory Ames mysteries.
Trigger warning: This book contains storyline elements focused on narcotic substance abuse and distribution.
Thank you to the author and Reedsy Discovery for providing a review copy of this book. I look forward to seeing this series develop.