ALSO BY T E KINSEY

  Dizzy Heights Mysteries:

  The Deadly Mystery of the Missing Diamonds

  Lady Hardcastle Mysteries:

  A Quiet Life in the Country

  In the Market for Murder

  Death Around the Bend

  Christmas at the Grange

  A Picture of Murder

  The Burning Issue of the Day

  Death Beside the Seaside

  The Fatal Flying Affair

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2021 by T E Kinsey

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542021111

  ISBN-10: 1542021111

  Cover design by Tom Sanderson

  Cover illustration by Jelly London

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Did you enjoy . . .

  Chapter One

  Friday, 26 June 1925

  ‘Tell me again why we couldn’t have gone by train,’ said Mickey Kent weakly as the motor coach clattered over another pothole.

  Katy shook her head. ‘We’ve been over this, darling. The charabanc is free – it was laid on by the family hosting the party. If we’d taken the train it would have come out of the fee. Your fee.’

  Puddle looked up from her book. ‘And it’s door-to-door service – no need to traipse all the way to Paddington.’

  ‘Lugging all our gear,’ agreed Skins. ‘It’s all safely on the roof under a lovely big tarpaulin. Shut up and eat your sandwiches.’

  Mickey turned slightly more green than is usual for a healthy person and looked out of the window. ‘At least it’s stopped bloody raining,’ he muttered.

  The Dizzy Heights were on their way to Oxfordshire where the band had been booked to play at a party at Bilverton House. Katy Cannon, their new manager, had been rather pleased with herself at having secured such a lucrative engagement before she’d even been officially appointed to the post. She had been doubly pleased when the family who made the booking had offered to provide transport in both directions in a ‘luxury motor coach’. She wasn’t sure that the twenty-seater vehicle that had turned up that morning quite counted as ‘luxurious’, but the paintwork was shiny and the wooden seats clean. She had tried her best to remain enthusiastic but Mickey’s ceaseless complaints were making it increasingly difficult.

  The coach was roomy for the eight-piece band and their two camp followers, and they had spread themselves out.

  Singer Mickey Kent sat alone with his travel-sickness-induced bad temper. He was usually one of the more cheerful and easy-going members of the band, but coaches and lorries made him queasy. Being queasy made him irritable.

  ‘Elk’ Elkington, the banjo player, was sitting with Benny Charles (trombone) and Eustace Taylor (trumpet). They had been trying to play pontoon, but the same potholes that were causing Mickey such distress had bounced the cards off the bench once too often and they were now taking it in turns to make up filthy limericks.

  The woodwind section – Isabella ‘Puddle’ Puddephatt and new girl Vera James – were sharing a two-seater bench in companionable silence as they read. Puddle had her book while Vera devoured a fashion magazine.

  Ellie Maloney and manager Katy Cannon sat together at the front of the coach. Ellie had been involved with the band in one way or another since her husband, the drummer Ivor ‘Skins’ Maloney, and his bass-playing best friend Barty Dunn had formed it two years earlier. They had resisted the idea of employing a manager until only a week before, when Puddle had persuaded them to accept the services of her recently widowed sister, Katy. Ellie had spent the bulk of the journey so far explaining the band’s complex financial arrangements and dietary requirements.

  Skins and Dunn had been inseparable friends since childhood and had been making a comfortable living as ‘the best rhythm section in London’ since before the war. They had established themselves as musical pioneers, first with ragtime and then with jazz, and in the first few years after being demobbed they had sought out musicians who shared their passion. By 1923 they had found exactly the right mix of talent and enthusiasm, and the Dizzy Heights were born.

  ‘I can’t rhyme “twinkletoes” with “wrinkled hose”,’ said Dunn, wearily.

  Skins pointed to a couplet further down the page. ‘Yeah, but then you can have a line here about her shocking stockings.’

  ‘It’s supposed to be romantic.’

  ‘Soppy, you mean.’

  ‘You’re a fine one to talk. I’ve put up with more than my fair share of soppiness between you and Ellie over the years.’

  ‘Yeah, but it was my cheeky charm that won her over in the end, not the soppiness – everyone loves a bit of cheeky charm. Stick some jokes in it. The kids’ll love it.’

  Dunn shook his head.

  ‘Are you boys behaving yourselves back here?’ said Ellie.

  She had stumbled the length of the jolting coach to join them. She sat down next to Skins.

  ‘Barty’s keeping me in order,’ he said. ‘He’s come over all grown up this morning.’

  ‘I’m just trying to write a decent lyric for this song,’ said Dunn. ‘It’s not like I’ve taken holy orders or anything.’

  ‘Keeps turning down my suggestions,’ persisted Skins.

  ‘Everyone turns down your suggestions, honey,’ said Ellie. ‘You’re a goof.’

  ‘He’s an idiot,’ said Dunn, without looking up.

  Skins grinned. ‘I prefer to think of myself as charmingly cheeky. Are we nearly there yet?’

  ‘Not far now. I’m looking forward to this, I must say. We’ve not been away together for ages. Thank you for letting me tag along.’

  ‘It’s always a joy to spend time in your company, my perfect love.’

  ‘See what I mean?’ said Dunn.

  ‘What does he mean?’ asked Ellie.

  ‘He thinks I’m soppy.’

  ‘He’s not wrong – you’re as soppy as they come. But I’m still grateful to be coming out here with you. No one else brings their wives.’

  ‘After all that business at the Aristippus Club they think of you as part of the band,’ said Skins.

  ‘We could do with a piano player,’ said Dunn as he put away his notebook. ‘You’re always welcome to sit in.’

  ‘That’s a kind offer,’ she said, ‘but I’m mediocre at best. I’d be out of my depth with you guys.’

  Dunn smiled. ‘I disagree, but it’s up to you. The offer stands. But what do we know about tonight’s party? Who lives at Bilverton House?’

  ‘The Bilvertons,’ said Ellie.

  ‘You say that like we should know them,’ said Skins.

  ‘Of Bilverton’s Biscuits,’ she said.

  ‘Seriously?’

  Ellie nodded.

  ‘Oi, you lot,’ said Skins. ‘This shower we’re playing for tonight own Bilverton’s Biscuits.’

  ‘We know,’ chorused the rest of the band.

  ‘Oh,’ said Skins, deflatedly. ‘How come you all knew?’

  ‘I didn’t know,’ said Elk.

  ‘How come everyone except Elk knew?’

  ‘It wasn’t hard to work it out, darling,’ said Puddle. ‘They live in a house in Oxfordshire called Bilverton House.’

  ‘Yes, but—’ began Skins.

  ‘Oxfordshire,’ said Benny. ‘Where the biscuits come from.’

  ‘And how would I know that?’ asked Skins.

  ‘It’s written on the box,’ said Eustace.

  ‘Ah,’ said Skins, with a triumphant wag of a skinny finger. ‘That’ll be it. The likes of me have servants to bring our biscuits on bone china platters. We don’t deal with’ – he sniffed – ‘boxes.’

  Ellie and Dunn ducked out of the way as Skins was pelted with sandwich wrappers and fruit peel.

  Ellie returned to her seat next to Katy, picking up the litter and returning it to its owners as she went.

  The journey proceeded uneventfully, with only three more stops for Mickey to be sick by the side of the road.

  Shortly after midday, the coach passed through a stone gateway and on to a broad paved drive, then wound through woodland for a while
before climbing towards an impressive Georgian country house. The drive was surprisingly steep, prompting jokes from the band that they might have to get out and push, but eventually they made it. The coach pulled up near the steps leading down to the servants’ entrance at the side of the house.

  ‘Everybody wait here,’ said Katy. ‘I’ll go and find Mr Bilverton.’

  She set off towards the steps, but stopped when she was hailed by a liveried butler. The band, still struggling to stir stiffly from their seats, looked on as Katy led the butler back to the coach. She gestured towards the open door and he stuck his head in.

  ‘If you would be good enough to follow me, please, ladies and gentlemen, Mister Howard would be pleased to greet you in the Grand Hall.’

  The Dizzy Heights, with only the smallest amount of complaining about their aches and pains, followed the butler towards the house, while the driver was left to make his own way to the servants’ hall for a cup of tea and a sandwich.

  The freshly painted red front doors opened into a distinctly underwhelming vestibule: a tiled floor, a large coir mat, a modern mirror, a pair of doors set with cracked stained glass. No one in the band was expecting much by way of grandeur from the hall that lay beyond it. But there were gasps and at least one ‘Bugger me!’ from the assembled musicians as the butler flung open the doors with an impresario’s flourish.

  The Grand Hall was two storeys high with a broad stone staircase at the far end. The stairs split left and right at a landing and led up to a gallery that ran round all four sides of the hall, supported by elegant stone pillars. The floor was polished parquet, there were portraits on the stairs, and from the ceiling hung two elaborate chandeliers that had been adapted for electricity.

  A man in his early twenties stood on the landing at the top of the first flight of stairs. He was dressed in a luridly striped blazer with a clashing bow tie, and his blond hair was slicked back with pomade. His smile was genuine and his arms wide in greeting.

  ‘The Dizzy Heights, I presume,’ he said warmly, descending the steps to the hall. ‘Welcome to Bilverton House. I’m Howard Bilverton. Which of you is Mrs Cannon?’

  Katy pressed her way through the little knot of gawping musicians.

  ‘That’ll be me,’ she said. ‘How do you do, Mr Bilverton?’

  ‘How do you do?’ he said. ‘Please call me Howard – everyone around here’s called Mr Bilverton. Frightfully confusing. I’m so glad you got here safely.’

  ‘And we’re glad you invited us. This is a magnificent house.’

  ‘We’re rather proud of it, I must say. Been in the family for . . . Actually, not that long, really. Since before I was born, though.’

  ‘You should be very proud indeed,’ said Katy.

  ‘Thank you. I thought it would be fun to greet you all here as guests. To tell you the truth, I’m rather excited to have such a highly respected band playing for us tonight and I thought it would be a travesty to have you all skulking in through the servants’ entrance, which was my father’s plan.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you . . . Howard. Now, where would you like us to set ourselves up?’

  ‘I have some good news on that front. With this awful rain we’ve been having all week we feared we might have to bring the festivities indoors – we usually hold the Midsummer Ball in the gardens, d’you see? Marquees and whatnot, I’m sure you know the drill. The invitations always say “Indoors if wet” and until this morning it looked very much as though you might be playing in here. But the gods have smiled on us with one sunny day. So the marquee has been decorated, a wooden floor put down and the stage set up.’

  ‘That’s lovely,’ said Katy. ‘We’ll fetch our gear and get ourselves set up.’

  Howard smiled. ‘I’ll take you out there myself. And don’t worry about your . . . “gear”. I’ll get someone to take everything through for you. I promise the staff will treat it all with the greatest of care.’

  Katy returned his smile. ‘Oh. Well, thank you very much.’

  Howard indicated a door in the corner of the hall. ‘That door leads into the billiards room and I thought you might care to use it as your base for the evening. Your “green room”, as they say – I was on the entertainments committee at my college, d’you see? We shut it off for parties and lock the doors – doesn’t do to have drunken guests tearing up the old baize – so you’ll be unmolested.’

  ‘That all sounds splendid,’ said Katy. This was her first engagement with the band and, in truth, she had absolutely no idea what they might think of as splendid. But she was a tiny bit intimidated by the exuberantly outgoing musicians and was determined to give at least the appearance of confidence.

  ‘Well, then, that’s marvellous,’ said Howard. ‘Simply marvellous. So, if you could all follow me, I’ll show you where you’ll be playing.’

  He set off through a doorway at the end of the hall. They trooped through what looked like a library, then what seemed like a grand, airy sitting room, and out through double doors on to a flagstoned terrace.

  On the other side of the low wall of the terrace was an area of level grass, now dominated by a huge white tent. Beyond a ha-ha, the parkland swept down a steep hill to a tree-lined lake.

  Howard led them across some duckboards and through the canvas entrance to the marquee.

  The inside had been miraculously transformed into a ballroom. Swags of silk disguised the drab canvas roof, from which hung lightweight chandeliers set with electric lights, while the linoleum laid across the planks protecting the grass had been printed to mimic a polished wooden floor. Some servants were setting the circular tables for a summer banquet, and there were clinks and rattles of glass as others set up an impressive bar.

  A stage had been built at the top end, upon which sat a Bösendorfer grand piano.

  ‘Will that do you?’ asked Howard, indicating the stage.

  ‘Handsome,’ said Mickey as he jumped up and surveyed the elegant outdoor room from the spot where he’d be standing that evening.

  ‘Do you have any special requirements for the stage?’ asked Howard. ‘I can’t do anything about the lighting, I’m afraid, although there will be lanterns dotted about the place and candles on the tables – perhaps we can put something on the stage. Would that help the old ambience, d’you think? I can’t promise anything, but I’ll look into it, and I’m sure we can arrange for anything else you need.’

  ‘This will be perfect,’ said Katy. ‘We’ll just need eight chairs, that’s all.’

  ‘I’ll have some sent out. I couldn’t remember if you needed a piano so I had them put one of ours on the stage for you.’

  Ellie and Skins looked at each other.

  ‘One?’ whispered Skins. ‘How many pianos do they have?’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Katy. She had no idea whether they needed or wanted a piano on the stage but, again, she was keen not to let on how little she knew about their requirements.

  Howard beamed. ‘Marvellous. Well done, me. I’ll get our chaps to bring in your instruments and luggage, and then leave you to it, if I may. There’s still rather a lot to do, I’m afraid. Just ask one of the servants if you need anything. I’ll check on you later – you know, to make sure you have everything.’

  With a cheery wave, he was gone.

  ‘We’ve played worse places,’ said Skins with a smile. ‘You’ve done us proud, Katy. I knew we should have had a manager all along.’

  ‘It’s not half bad, is it?’ she agreed.

  ‘Just one thing,’ said Eustace. ‘Where are we sleeping?’

  ‘They’ve a full house, what with family, guests and servants,’ said Katy, ‘but they’ve said we can kip down in the chapel. They’ve got some old army cots we can use.’

  ‘The chapel?’ said Eustace, as though she’d invited him to sleep in a water-filled ditch at the other end of the drive.

  ‘Don’t you listen to anything anyone ever says, Eust?’ said Mickey, who was feeling less queasy now he was on solid ground, but no less testy. ‘Not only is this place the seat of the Bilverton family, famed throughout the land as the owners of Bilverton’s Biscuits—’

  ‘Make your elevenses special with a Bilverton’s Tea Break Assortment,’ interrupted Elk.

  ‘I love that advertisement,’ said Vera. ‘Such a pretty image of the young couple enjoying their . . .’ She trailed off. ‘Sorry, Mickey,’ she said. ‘But it is a lovely picture. Do carry on.’