Death of a Blue Blood

In the latest mystery in the USA Today bestselling series, Jessica Fletcher rings in the New Year with British aristocracy, but someone's about to end the life of the party.... A VERY PROPER MURDER Jessica Fletcher and her friend Scotland Yard detective inspector George Sutherland are invited to attend a New Year's Eve Ball at Castorbrook Castle, thanks to her British publisher. Shortly after arriving in the idyllic English countryside, Jessica discovers the body of a lady's maid in the garden. While their host, Lord Norrance, his family, and party guests squabble over the tragic death in perfectly mannered, thoroughly British style, family relations are strained as old wounds are reopened and cutting remarks are freely handed out. As midnight beckons at the ball, the merriment crashes to a halt when Norrance falls ill and dies, apparently poisoned--and the number of suspects with a grudge against the lord of the manor sprouts like English ivy. Now it's up to Jessica and George to find the killer--or killers--before another corpse welcomes in the New Year....

Autorentext

Jessica Fletcher is a bestselling mystery writer who has a knack for stumbling upon real-life mysteries in her various travels.

Donald Bain, her longtime collaborator, is the writer of more than one hundred other books, many of them bestsellers.

Zusammenfassung
*In the latest mystery in the *USA Today bestselling series, Jessica Fletcher rings in the New Year with British aristocracy, but someone’s about to end the life of the party.…

A VERY PROPER MURDER

Jessica Fletcher and her friend Scotland Yard detective inspector George Sutherland are invited to attend a New Year’s Eve Ball at Castorbrook Castle, thanks to her British publisher. Shortly after arriving in the idyllic English countryside, Jessica discovers the body of a lady’s maid in the garden.

While their host, Lord Norrance, his family, and party guests squabble over the tragic death in perfectly mannered, thoroughly British style, family relations are strained as old wounds are reopened and cutting remarks are freely handed out.

As midnight beckons at the ball, the merriment crashes to a halt when Norrance falls ill and dies, apparently poisoned—and the number of suspects with a grudge against the lord of the manor sprouts like English ivy. Now it’s up to Jessica and George to find the killer—or killers—before another corpse welcomes in the New Year....
 

Leseprobe

OTHER BOOKS IN THE Murder, She Wrote SERIES

OBSIDIAN

Chapter One

James William Edward Grant, seventh Earl of Norrance,
and
Marielle Grant, Countess of Norrance,
request the honour of your presence
at their
New Year’s Eve Ball
Castorbrook Castle
Chipping Minster
Gloucestershire

“Great old pile, what, lass?” George murmured to me as we both leaned forward in our seats to capture the view through the windshield of the twin towers of Castorbrook Castle.

I patted my shoulder bag, which held the precious invitation, and shivered in excitement. I’ve been to many wonderful places, but this would be my first New Year’s Eve ball in a castle.

“Built in the eighteenth century, in the style known as Gothic,” our driver called over his shoulder. “It bears a resemblance to the Palace of Westminster, doncha’ think?” He was referring to the building where the Houses of Parliament meet in London.

“A smaller, less ornate version,” I agreed, “minus Big Ben.”

“If you put a giant clockface in one o’ them towers, it’d come pretty close.” The driver crested the hill, leaving behind the avenue of plane trees. He turned left, taking a route around a large pond, the surface of which mirrored the banks of rhododendrons along the shore and reflected the tips of the towers shimmering in the water.

“Looks like we won’t be getting in any ice-skating,” George said to me.

“Good thing, since I didn’t bring my skates.”

“Too early in the winter for that,” the driver called out, eavesdropping on our conversation as he had been the entire two hours from London. “Don’t get snow out here before January, most years anyway. You’ll find a bit o’ frost about in the mornin’. Might see a flake or two before the New Year, if yer lucky. Been raining on and off—why I suggested we start out when we did. Don’t fancy driving these hills in a storm.”

“Thanks, Ralph,” George said as the car pulled to a stop in front of the impressive entrance, where a series of arches, flanked by evergreens festooned in red ribbons, led to an interior courtyard.

“Happy to oblige, George. I’ll be at the cousin’s in Stow on the Wold a few days if you change your mind and decide you don’t want to miss the fireworks on the Thames.” Ralph handed him a card on which he’d written a phone number.

George tucked it in his vest pocket. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

While the men retrieved our luggage from the space next to the driver’s seat, I tugged on the hem of my tweed jacket, smoothed away the travel wrinkles of my skirt, and inhaled the sharp country air. No one was out front to greet us, but perhaps they hadn’t seen the car coming or heard the crunch of the tires on the gray gravel. We’d arrived a little earlier than expected. Ralph had taken the afternoon off from his usual duties as a London cabbie to drive us to the Cotswolds, where we would welcome in the New Year as guests of Lord and Lady Norrance, friends of my British publisher, which was how I’d landed on the invitation list.

Ralph cocked his head at the building as he wrestled my rolling suitcase to the ground. “Yer host, Lord Norrance—you call ’im by his title, Jessica—is seventh generation,” he said. “Opens the place up to the public every summer—many of the great houses do now, you know—and does the occasional wedding or some such. Not a bad setting to launch a new life together, what? Wish I coulda done that for my daughter, Allie, and ’er beau, but ’er mum says, ‘Save yer pennies. A pretty picture won’t keep ’em warm in winter.’ Too practical by half, that one.”

“She was very wise,” I said, taking the handle of my bag from him.

“Ralph’s a dreamer,” George said. “That’s part of his charm. But you’d have empty pockets, old chap, if it weren’t for your wife, Kay.” George clapped Ralph on the shoulder as the driver closed the hackney’s door.

“True, and don’t I know it.”

A former bobby, Ralph had retired due to injuries sustained during a crackdown on gangs by the Metropolitan Police—the drug pusher was caught, but Ralph’s knee was a casualty of the operation. Opting out of a desk job, he’d exchanged a life pursuing criminals for one escorting tourists, although many of his customers turned out to be his previous law enforcement colleagues. My companion, Chief Inspector George Sutherland, was one of them.

      *

George Sutherland and I had met years earlier during a trip I’d taken to England to be the weekend guest of Marjorie Ainsworth, the reigning grand dame of British mystery writers. Marjorie had become old and feeble and was confined to a wheelchair, and I felt this might be the last time I would see her alive. Despite her advanced age and failing health, she’d recently completed what was being touted as her finest literary effort, Gin & Daggers, although there was growing controversy over whether she’d had the help of a gho…