THE CURSE OF PENRYTH HALL

Jess Armstrong‘s debut novel, The Curse of Penryth Hall, won the Minotaur Books/Mystery Writers of America First Crime Novel Competition. She has a masters degree in American History but prefers writing about imaginary people to the real thing. Jess lives in New Orleans with her historian husband, two sons, yellow cat, speckled dog, and the world’s most pampered school-fair goldfish. And when she’s not working on her next project, she’s probably thinking about cheese, baking, tweeting or some combination of the above.

One of B&N’s Best Mystery Debuts of the Year

“[The Curse of Penryth Hall] channels The Hound of the Baskervilles. . . An intriguing and altogether enchanting mystery.” —Kirkus Reviews

“Armstrong’s entrancing historical debut delivers an elegantly crafted, supernatural-tinged plot… Superbly rendered characters include a plucky protagonist whom Maisie Dobbs would be proud to claim as a friend and an evocative sense of place reminiscent of Daphne du Maurier at her best… Readers who like their historical mysteries embellished with plenty of gothic ambience and enhanced with an abundance of dry wit will adore this splendid debut.” —Library Journal (starred review)

“An engrossing debut. . . Ruby is a wonderful concoction, world-weary and reckless, and Armstrong outfits her with a moody, gripping mystery that keeps the pages turning. . . Fans of Gothic-flavored suspense will devour this.” —Publishers Weekly

“Readers who enjoy historical fiction with a touch of gothic and noir will find this tale compelling.” —Booklist

“An atmospheric, fast-moving debut. . . This debut won the Mystery Writers of America/Minotaur First Crime Novel Competition, a well-deserved honor for a book whose gutsy main character and immersive world-building will remind readers of Margaret Dove in Evie Hawtrey’s And By Fire.” —First Clue

CHAPTER ONE: An Unwanted Journey

EXETER

AUGUST 1922

THERE were three things a girl wanted after the night I’d had. One: a proper breakfast. Two: a scarcity of sunlight. And three—possibly most important—coffee. Dark, bitter, and at least two pots. But I had none of the aforementioned. What I did have, however, was a splitting headache, a sunburn, and my octogenarian employer sitting alongside me in a deck chair with the Pall Mall Gazette and Globe in his hands.

I blinked in the bright morning sun, then shut my eyes back tight. I braved a glance down at myself, still dressed in the same ocher silk evening gown from the night before. Details of which returned in the vaguest of flickers, none particularly illuminating. The nearby bells of Exeter Cathedral rang out loud and clear, rattling around in my gin-muddled head.

“Is there coffee?”

“Is that all you have to say for yourself?” Mr. Owen flicked another page in his paper, his dark-brown eyes fixed upon the newsprint. “When you didn’t come down for breakfast I thought you’d finally gone and drowned yourself in this death pit you’ve dug in my rose garden. But it seems you’ve nearly done the job in gin.”

I waved a hand at him, ignoring the twinge of truth in the last barb. “It’s a bathing pool, Mr. Owen. They’re going to be all the rage one day. Besides, your roses were dead when I moved here. I daresay I improved matters.”

He chuckled beneath his breath. At least he wasn’t terribly cross. He seldom was, no matter how deep my provocation. I sat up in the wooden chair, pulling my knees against my chest, wincing at the light. The blackcap in the tree nearby was particularly effusive in his morning song. The fellow was a bit more cheerful than I.

He slid a wire-framed pair of sunglasses across the table between us, and I breathed out a sigh of relief, taking them at once. God bless him. A rapidly cooling cup of tea sat on the table beside me, and I couldn’t help but smile. This was our habit, he and I, had been since I’d answered his advertisement for a room to let. Though I’d gotten quite a bit more in the bargain. We’d lived together in this strange little world here in the eastern part of Devon, and it suited us both fine. In name, he owned it all: the bookshop, the derelict mansion along with everything in it—with the exception of my little automobile and my clothing. Oh, and my jewelry. Not that I had much of that anymore as I’d taken a rather bare-bones approach to life since the end of the war. Fewer ties, fewer things to lose.

With the sun no longer assaulting my head, I opened my eyes to the jade and gilt tiles of the pool, which sparkled back at me like a jewel box in the midmorning sun. And while he might detest the thing, it was my greatest joy as we weren’t along the seaside. “Has Mrs. Adams arrived yet?”

“After last night, lass?” Mr. Owen raised an incredulous bushy white eyebrow.

I bit my lip—well, if I could only recall last night it might clue me in a bit as to my current state of being as well as the location of our housekeeper. My parties did have a knack for getting out of hand. Last night, from all evidence, was no exception. And it started off so lovely too, with dinner and a bit of port—which I believe was the 1907. We still had half a case in the cellar that I’d brought up specifically for the occasion. Followed by literature and poetry. A smattering of philosophy until things took a more libertine bend. And they always took a libertine bend. Mr. Owen would join in the revelry for the first few hours, eager to debate Marx, Nietzsche, or Freud, his favorite—I despised the fellow, but no one was perfect. Not even dear Mr. Owen.

“How bad was it?” I wrinkled my nose.

He snorted again and took a sip of tea, glancing at me over a gilt-rimmed teacup. “It wasn’t nearly as bad as the one in February with the…” He gestured with a furrowed brow. “You recall, the one with the goat dressed for the opera.”

I snorted back a laugh. “She wasn’t dressed for the opera, she was Brünnhilde from Wagner’s Götterdämmerung. Come now, we even saw that one together in Hammersmith last winter. Remember?”

“I do not recall any sopranic goats when we were in Hammersmith.”

“That’s not a word—”

He shrugged with a quirk of his white mustache. “It is if I say it is.”

I glanced around the eerily quiet garden. It was too quiet. Ordinarily by this time of day Mrs. Adams would be bustling about, casting me annoyed glances as she went about her duties. Likely gathering bits of information to carry back to the ladies’ auxiliary or whatever they call that sort of thing in Devon. “Mr. Owen … where is Mrs. Adams? She hasn’t taken ill, has she?”

The old Scot’s dark-brown eyes were warm and amused. Not that he’d ever admit to either sentiment. “Gone. Within ten minutes of setting foot over the threshold. Something about a den of sin and vice. What’s that make now? The third housekeeper that’s scarpered this month?”

“Second.” But really, who was counting at this point? Honestly, my parties weren’t that scandalous. Even if I couldn’t recall the exact details of the affair.

“It’s for the best, as I wanted to speak with you about something, lass. And if that old hen were here she’d never leave us in peace.”

Something secret—now, that was interesting. My morning was looking better already.

“You see, girl, I’ve been thinking.”

Oh, dear. Mr. Owen’s thinking never boded well. Usually, it was followed by my being flung hither or yon on some mad escapade of his. I wondered briefly what he’d been like as a younger man, traveling the world until he ran out of funds, and returning back home with an unconventional wife to set up the bookshop here in Exeter. Of course, she passed away before the war, and all three of their sons during it. Leaving him a father in need of a child, and I a child in need of a father. He never spoke much about his life before I came into it. Nor did I for that matter. The past was no good to anyone, and digging about in it only brought about unpleasantness. It was best to leave it where it was. Past.

I took a sip of the tea, letting it wend its way, dark and strong, down my throat. “Where am I off to this time?”

“Am I that easy to read?”

“Dreadfully so.”