Guy straightened up and looked at Louisa. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I think it is love at first sight.’ She smiled at him. ‘But where did he come from?’
‘My uncle,’ she said. ‘He left him with my ma; said he was off to join the army. More likely he’s hoping to get posted abroad where no one can find him for money he owes.’
‘So Xander …?’
‘Seems there was a fight – that explains the blood I saw, and Ma said he turned up with two black eyes. Whatever Xander said, he did only as I asked him and no more,’ said Louisa.
This was the cherry on the icing. Whatever Xander Waring had done to Roland Lucknor could be forgiven, even in the eyes of the law, thought Guy, and he hadn’t done anything to Stephen Cannon. It was the last arrest that Guy hadn’t managed, and it had niggled at him, but no more. Even better, Louisa was completely exonerated.
There was just one more thing. Guy looked at her, standing on the step before him. Her porcelain skin was illuminated by the street lamps and her eyes were nearly black. He saw her shiver slightly from the cold. As he was about to say something, he sensed someone behind him and when he looked, saw his brothers all grinning cheekily, their heads peering around into the hall. Guy gently closed the front door behind him.
‘May I come and see you soon, at Asthall Manor?’
‘Yes,’ said Louisa softly, ‘please come. It’s not just the family who will be pleased to see you.’
And in the shadows of the doorway, with Socks sitting down and looking up at them, his tail thumping, Guy and Louisa embraced.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
Some evenings later, when the advent calendars had been put up in the nursery, and all the girls had exclaimed over the darling pictures of robins and holly branches that began to appear behind the cardboard doors, Nancy and Louisa were sitting by the fire on the scratchy rug, Nanny Blor in her armchair, reading and dozing in the warm fug of the little sitting room.
Nancy was writing in a school exercise book that looked as if it had been dug out from the bottom of a cupboard somewhere. She wrote quickly, with words scratched out and replaced frequently, her pen not so much flying as dive-bombing over the page. Very occasionally she would look up, hand poised, ready to resume the writing as soon as the tap was turned on again, then her head would be bent over her lap once more. There was no sound but for the ticking of the carriage clock and the rustle of Nanny’s crêpe skirt as she shifted about, moving the cushion behind her back, trying to get a little more comfortable when she closed her eyes.
Louisa couldn’t quite concentrate on her own book. She was struggling slightly over a history book on Henry VIII because she had decided that she wanted to educate herself better and Lady Redesdale had given her a list to start with.
‘What’s that you’re writing?’ she asked. ‘One of Grue’s stories?’
Nancy stopped and looked at Louisa, then slightly past her, as if watching something else in the distance. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ve been thinking of writing a novel. A grown-up one.’
‘What does that mean?’ said Louisa, interested.
‘It means, not about imaginary things but real people. About the things that real people do to each other.’
‘I look forward to reading it,’ said Louisa.
‘You shall be one of the first, I promise,’ said Nancy. She put her book down and straightened out her legs, pointing her feet to stretch out, like a dog after a long walk. ‘It will be my London season next year. Everything is about to change – for me, at any rate.’ She laughed.
‘I think you are absolutely right,’ said Louisa. ‘It might even change for me, too, you know.’
Nanny Blor looked up at this, startled. ‘Don’t say you’re planning to go off again.’
Louisa stood up and shook her head. ‘Oh no, Nanny, I’m not going anywhere.’ She walked across the room and into one of the bedrooms, where the other girls were supposed to be getting ready for bed.
Diana was in her long flannel nightdress with tiny pearl buttons that ran all the way from neck to hem. She was sitting at the dressing table, regarding herself in the looking-glass, with Pamela standing behind her, brushing her hair and counting each stroke. Pamela’s own dark curls were tied back and her pyjamas were getting rather short. Louisa thought she might try to let down the hems.
Unity and Decca, in softest cotton jammies, were standing on either side of Debo’s cot, teasing her gently with their starfish hands as she gurgled at them. None of them looked up at Louisa as she stood in the doorway, drinking in the pleasure of their presence. She noticed, as if for the first time, the delicate print of flowers on the wallpaper, the three framed illustrations of a hunt on one wall, the spring of the soft carpet beneath her feet. A few toys were strewn about in a way that was untidy but cosy: a yellow doll’s dress on the bed, some wooden soldiers knocked over, a drum that had lost its sticks. It didn’t matter; she knew where everything went.
‘… ninety-nine, a hundred,’ said Pamela triumphantly, and suddenly looked up at Louisa as she did so, the hair brush held aloft like a winner’s trophy.
Pamela was the oldest child in the nursery now that Nancy was in stockings, planning parties in London and threatening to cut her hair short. Lord Redesdale had roared at the suggestion and Nancy had never looked more thrilled.
It wouldn’t be long until Tom would be home for the holidays and the Christmas tree would be standing in the hall, resplendently decorated with lights and homemade baubles that moved in the breeze each time the children ran past. Before midnight mass, all of the family and the servants would gather by the fire to sing carols, to herald in the angels and the new years ahead.
Louisa Cannon didn’t know what those years would bring but she knew that, at last, she looked forward to finding out.
15 October 1919
Dunkerque
My dearest one,
I am writing with the joyous news that my war is over. I was given my demobilisation orders this morning. The men we have been nursing here are all now declared either fully rehabilitated or have been found places in homes that will look after them for their remaining years. It is a strange and sad time, somehow, to leave behind this work and the people I have come to admire and respect as my colleagues. After two wars and almost forty years of nursing, I have nothing ahead but a quiet old age.
Yet it is, of course, a happy time, too. You and I will be together in Carnforth Lodge, but not for long. Let us find a cottage by the sea, where we may plant yellow roses around the door and put rocking chairs by the window, so we may look out at the calm and peaceful sea.
We have been given a week or so to pack our things and clear out this field hospital. I will telegram ahead of my arrival to London, probably to Waterloo station.
Wait for me just a little longer. I am coming home to you at last, my darling.
Most tender love,
Flo
28 December 1919
My dearest one,
I’m writing to you now because you are making it impossible for us to talk like the civilised people I know we are. Despite all you have said to me, most cruelly, I feel it only right to let you know of my plans.
I meant it when I told you, if you do not stop the blackmail, I have no choice but to go to the police.
Believe me when I say I do not want to do this. You and I have been friends for so long but you trouble me when your anger rages. Perhaps we were apart too long in the war, and have lost our understanding of each other. It seems you seek only the worst in me and I am finding it hard to remember the best of you, of which I was always so very fond.
I have changed my will, and left the monies I had intended to look after you, should I die before you, to my cousin Stuart instead. As you know, I am an admirer of his work and the money will give him the encouragement he needs to pursue his painting. I cannot, in all conscience, risk you being recognised by my family as someone close to me. You are engaging in an act of duplicity that is nothing less than a
twisted perversion of the kindness you and I so long strived to demonstrate in our work. When the new year comes, I will spend a week with Rosa to look for a seaside cottage there, in which I hope to spend my retirement. It has come sooner than expected but I want only for peace and quiet, to tend a garden and listen to the sounds of the waves. Your anger, your ire and jealousy are oppressive burdens I can no longer carry. I would rather be alone than beside you. How sad that is.
Flo
HISTORICAL NOTE
Florence Nightingale Shore was attacked on the Brighton line on Monday 12 January, 1920, and died a few days later in hospital. There was public outrage at her death and money was raised to fund the Florence Nightingale Shore Memorial Hospital (destroyed by bombing in World War Two), of which her long-term friend, Mabel Rogers, became the superintendent. Mabel Rogers was never suspected or charged with the murder of Florence Shore, and all conversations with her outside of the inquests have been completely invented by me.
Interviews with real-life witnesses have been taken from newspaper reports at the time of the inquests. Nobody has ever been found guilty of her murder.
While the Mitford sisters and their parents are, of course, a real family, my scenes with them in this book are all entirely imagined. Other members of their family and their servants also have their roots in reality, but for the purposes of moving the story along, I have had to change some dates (Nancy Mitford turned 18 years old in 1922, not 1921).
First and foremost, this is a novel. It is my hope, however, that in blending fact with fiction, we come closer to understanding the people of the past, as well as remember and commemorate them.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This book is for Florence Nightingale Shore and all war nurses, then and now, around the world. Florence was, like her godmother and namesake, a woman who worked tirelessly and courageously in extreme conditions during the Boer and Great wars. She refused to take shelter without the men she was looking after and always remained in the hospital with her patients despite the threat of bombing. She deserved a better ending than the one she got and I hope this book does something to earn her the respect and recognition she deserved.
I should like to pay tribute to Rosemary Cook’s detailed, factual history of Florence’s life and career as a Queen’s Nurse, The Nightingale Shore Murder (Second edition, Troubadour Publishing 2015), which to no small extent inspired my own fictional account.
The Mitford Murders was raised by a village. Thank you, Ed Wood, for your encouragement and patience from that very first step to the last of the thousand miles. My thanks, too, to Cath Burke, Andy Hine and Kate Hibbert and all the teams of Sphere and Little, Brown that have helped bring this book to life.
For cheering at the corners, there’s no better than Hope Dellon of St Martin’s Press – thank you.
Thank you to my brilliant agent, Caroline Michel of PFD.
For expert advice and guidance, thank you Nicky Bird and Celestria Hales. Any mistakes that remain are of course my own.
Thank you to John Goodall and Melanie Bryan of Country Life magazine, for giving me a peek into Asthall Manor.
Thank you to my family and friends who have always given me life and laughter but especially to: Rory Fellowes, Lyn Fellowes, Cordelia Fellowes, Julian Fellowes, Emma Kitchener-Fellowes, Annette Jacot de Boinod, Celia Walden, Anna Cusden, Emma Wood, Damian Barr and Clare Peake. (Always remembering the ever-glorious Georgina Fellowes.)
And thank you to my family, whom I love more than words. I couldn’t have done any of this without you, my darling Simon, Beatrix, Louis and George.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
For my research on the lives of the Mitford family and the murder of Florence Nightingale Shore, I drew inspiration from a number of books, articles and online material. I am indebted to the lively accounts the sisters made of their own lives – whether as autobiography or closely-related novel – as well as the many biographies and collections of their extensive letters. Everything that happens in this novel is completely fictional but interested readers may enjoy discovering snippets of authentic detail within.
For those who’d like to know more, I refer them to: The Mitford Girls: The Biography of an Extraordinary Family by Mary S. Lovell; Nancy Mitford by Selina Hastings, Hons and Rebels by Jessica Mitford, The Mitfords: Letters Between Six Sisters edited by Charlotte Mosley and Decca: The Letters of Jessica Mitford edited by Peter Y. Sussman.
For novels which seem to draw on Nancy Mitford’s earlier years, I heartily recommend Love in a Cold Climate, The Pursuit of Love and The Blessing.
ALSO BY JESSICA FELLOWES
Downton Abbey—A Celebration
The Wit and Wisdom of Downton Abbey
A Year in the Life of Downton Abbey
The Chronicles of Downton Abbey
The World of Downton Abbey
About the Author
JESSICA FELLOWES is the New York Times and Globe and Mail bestselling author of The World of Downton Abbey. Formerly the Deputy Editor of Country Life, she has also been a columnist for the London Paper. Jessica also writes for the Daily Telegraph, Telegraph Weekend, The Lady and Sunday Times Style, and lives with her family in London. You can sign up for author updates here.
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Prologue
Part One
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
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Part Two
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Part Three
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Si
xty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five
Chapter Seventy-Six
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Historical Note
Acknowledgements
Bibliography
Also by Jessica Fellowes
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE MITFORD MURDERS. Copyright © 2017 by Little, Brown Book Group Ltd. Written by Jessica Fellowes. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Fellowes, Jessica, author.
Title: The Mitford murders / Jessica Fellowes.
Description: First U.S. edition. | New York : Minotaur Books, 2018.
Identifiers: LCCN 2017041310 | eISBN 978-1-250-17080-4
Subjects: LCSH: Nannies—Fiction. | Murder—Investigation—Fiction. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PR6106.E398 M58 2018 | DDC 823/.92—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017041310
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First published in Great Britain by Sphere, an imprint of Little, Brown Book Group, an Hachette UK company
First U.S. Edition: January 2018
First International Edition: January 2018