Valued for Murder: A British Cozy Murder Mystery with a Female Amateur Sleuth (A Dotty Sayers Antique Mystery Book 2) Read online

  VALUED FOR MURDER

  A DOTTY SAYERS ANTIQUE MYSTERY

  VICTORIA TAIT

  Copyright © 2022 by Victoria Tait

  A Kanga Press Publication © 2022

  Cover Design by Daniela Colleo of StunningBookCovers.com

  Editing Allie Douglas

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical or photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of the publisher and author.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  For more information visit VictoriaTait.com

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  CHAPTER ONE

  “The lies that fool me,” sang Zenobia Richardson, and as her voice rose in pitch, twenty-eight-year-old Dotty Sayers cautiously placed her glass of sparkling water on a walnut sideboard. Staring at her drink, she wondered if it was true that an opera singer’s voice could shatter glass.

  “Isn’t Zenobia amazing?” whispered Aunt Beanie beside her. “Even though she claims to be in retirement, few singers have her vocal range.”

  Aunt Beanie, whose full name was Bernadette Devereux, was not Dotty’s real aunt, but she’d provided Dotty with a cottage to live in and continued to offer her support, guidance and friendship.

  They were standing at the back of a beautiful room in Windrush Hall, a large Georgian country house, nestled in a valley in the rolling hills of England’s picturesque Cotswolds.

  The new owner, as Dotty considered Zenobia Richardson, stood in a semi-circular alcove at the front of the formal room, bathed in soft spring sunlight pouring through the floor to ceiling windows which looked out over the colourful garden beyond.

  Last week, Dotty had read a magazine article detailing the transformation Miss Richardson had made to the formal gardens, and she longed to walk through them admiring the tall delphiniums, delicate aquilegias and striking agapanthus.

  Zenobia finished her song with a clear, high note, and the group of American tourists who’d listened in rapt silence broke into applause. Those who’d been sitting on ornate chairs stood and clapped and someone at the back of the room hollered, “Encore.”

  “Come on,” muttered Aunt Beanie, tugging Dotty’s sleeve. “I need to familiarise myself with the contents of the drawing room before I conduct the first house tour.”

  As they left the music room, or morning room as it had been called in the sale prospectus, they met Zenobia’s red-headed and fiery-tempered Italian personal assistant, Serena De Rossi.

  Serena announced, “Madam will finish with a short aria. After, guests eat high tea or go on tour of house. Bene?”

  “Bene,” replied Aunt Beanie as she strode away.

  Dotty stood in the stone flagged entrance hall of the large Georgian house and gazed up the circular staircase. On her first visit, which was only last November, the house had been forlorn and neglected, with dust covering the now glittering chandelier.

  More had changed in the past eight months of her life than in her entire twenty-eight years. Her husband, Alasdair, who’d been fifteen years older than her, had died while on a peace-keeping tour in Africa with his British army regiment, 8 SCOTS.

  The regiment had amalgamated last December and moved back to Scotland. She’d been tempted to move with them and continue to receive their support until she’d realised how sheltered and smothering such an existence could be, and that she did in fact have the strength and determination to tackle life on her own.

  She’d been assisted by her colleagues at a job she’d inadvertently acquired at Akemans Antiques, and by her new friends in the Cotswolds.

  She tucked a strand of mousy-blonde hair behind her ear, and glanced across at a mahogany table where Serena was arranging Zenobia Richardson merchandise beneath a tall vase of pink lilies. The fragrance of the lilies was strong and pungent.

  “Come and look at this,” called Aunt Beanie.

  As Dotty crossed the entrance hall, a grey-haired butler, wearing a black tie, waistcoat and tailcoat, with formal grey trousers, appeared from the dining room carrying a silver platter.

  “Do I smell sausage rolls?” enquired Aunt Beanie.

  “Yes, madam. Straight out of the oven.”

  Aunt Beanie stepped forward, plucked one from the platter and popped it into her mouth.

  Red-faced, Serena De Rossi stormed across and in an aggressive whisper declared, “Those are for the guests.”

  “Delicious,” muttered Aunt Beanie through a mouthful of flaky pastry. “Compliments to the chef.”

  The butler’s lined face wrinkled into a smile as he replied, “My wife’s own recipe.”

  As he headed towards the music room, Dotty followed Aunt Beanie into the drawing room. She gasped. When she’d first seen the room it had been an echo of its former splendour, but the peacock-blue silk wallpaper had been renewed and as she touched the curtains, whose fibres did not part as the original ones had, she noted the delicate embroidered flowers. Even the gilt wood sofas and chairs had been reupholstered.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” declared Aunt Beanie.

  “Of course,” remembered Dotty, “Miss Richardson bought most of the furniture, and some of the paintings and ornaments, as well as the house. But it must have cost a fortune to return it to its former glory.”

  “She has money,” mused Aunt Beanie, “but she’s also smart. How much do you think this group is paying for a private performance, high tea, and a tour of her new house?”

  Serena De Rossi strode into the room and announced, “Madam finish last song, so you begin tour.”

  Aunt Beanie examined her reflection in a gilt mirror above the fireplace. She adjusted her green headscarf, tightened the bow which held it in place, and tucked a strand of grey hair beneath it. She turned towards Dotty, smoothing down her green smock over her charcoal grey trousers. For Aunt Beanie, she was conservatively dressed, as she loved bright colours, often wearing a combination of them together.

  “Wait here while I fetch the tour group,” she instructed Dotty. “You can listen and learn, so you’ll be ready to assist me the next time Zenobia hosts an event.” She turned and strode past Serena.

  Dotty was left
alone in the drawing room and she heard applause, which she presumed signified the end of the performance.

  A brightly coloured display of ceramic figurines, animals, and objects arranged in a mahogany glass-fronted display unit caught her eye. She stepped closer and her gaze was drawn to a model of two pairs of dancers in a colourful art deco design.

  She jumped as an elderly male voice said, “Madam’s original and favourite collection.” She had not heard the butler enter, but he stepped forward and pointed to a statuette of a black cat holding a bunch of flowers.

  “That one started her collection. She was given it on opening night when she first performed on stage in the West End. But I doubt it, or the rest of the collection is worth much, unlike the majority of the contents of this house, which is probably why I like them so much.”

  Dotty turned to the old butler and smiled.

  He inclined his head and continued. “Our housemaid, Esme, has taken to her bed complaining of stomach ache, and my wife is struggling with the last-minute preparations for tea. Mrs Devereux told me you are an excellent cook and that you’d be willing to help out in the kitchen. Is that so?”

  “Of course,” replied Dotty, realising she was relieved to be doing something useful, and she did enjoy cooking.

  She followed the butler across the stone flagged entrance hall and into the dining room. Little had changed since the sale of the house and the auction of its contents, most of which Zenobia had bought, including the Duke of Ditchford’s family portraits which still hung on the walls.

  The kitchen was a different story. The old Duke had used the space as his living quarters with a kitchen area, and a circular dining table and chairs arranged at one end around a log-burning fire. But the fireplace was no longer visible, as a wall had been constructed across the room, and the modern kitchen into which Dotty stepped was half the size of the old one.

  A dumpy woman wearing a pair of yellow-tinted glasses entered the kitchen carrying a wicker basket full of bread rolls. She exclaimed, “Benson, what am I to do? Madam demands freshly prepared sandwiches, but I cannot make them and fry the tempura prawns and vegetables at the same time.”

  She deposited her basket on a counter and scampered across to a gleaming stainless-steel range cooker from which she pulled out a tray of mini quiches. She placed them on a metal rack beside the oven and wafted them with a tea towel. “Ouf! They are not burnt, but Madam will be furious if we don’t serve everything immediately.”

  Benson crossed the black and white chequerboard tiled floor and gave the woman a huge hug. “Françoise, this lady has come to your rescue.”

  “Chérie, quick, quick,” gestured Françoise to Dotty.

  Dotty worked quickly but diligently. As instructed, she prepared open sandwiches with an array of toppings, including smoked salmon and cream cheese, smoked trout pâté and dill, and blue cheese, fig and walnuts with a honey drizzle.

  Benson arranged the sandwiches on chrome platters and carried them away, while Françoise fried prawns and slices of vegetables in two deep fat fryers. The noise of an industrial extractor fan dominated the kitchen.

  After half an hour of continuous work, the red-headed Serena appeared and declared, in a haughty voice, “You can stop now. The guests have enough savouries, so you need to start on the sweets.”

  Seemingly oblivious, Françoise placed another handful of vegetables into a deep-fat fryer, which spat and hissed. Serena shouted, “I said that’s enough! We need the cakes. Now.”

  Françoise spun round and stared at Serena through her steamed up glasses. She removed them and began wiping the lenses on her apron.

  “Oh, who’s this?” exclaimed Dotty as a large furry grey cat wandered into the kitchen from the main house.

  “Who?” exclaimed Françoise. She finished wiping her glasses and put them back on. With a note of relief, she cried, “Mario. There’s no food for you here at the moment. Out you go.”

  The cat stopped and examined the cook and then Dotty.

  He was just like Earl Grey, her cat, who had originally lived in this house with the old Duke, but she was sure Earl Grey had never worn a diamanté studded collar. Presumably they weren’t real diamonds. “Mario?” she enquired.

  “Tosca’s lover,” snapped Serena as she roughly picked up the cat and carried him out of the kitchen.

  After a few seconds, Serena cried, “Ow!”

  Françoise smiled and exclaimed, “Bravo, Mario.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  After Zenobia Richardson’s guests had departed, Dotty and Aunt Beanie returned home to Meadowbank Farm on the edge of Fairford, a small, attractive Cotswold town, ten miles east of the larger Roman town of Cirencester.

  As she relaxed in her bath, Dotty reflected that she’d had a fascinating day. She loved visiting other people’s houses, and it was her favourite part of her job at Akemans Antiques. Most properties were not as grand as Windrush Hall, nor did they all contain so many expensive antiques, but the way people lived their lives, and the items they cherished, intrigued her.

  Aunt Beanie had invited her to the main farmhouse for a light supper, although this would now be enhanced by delicacies left over from high tea which Zenobia’s cook, Françoise, had smuggled into Aunt Beanie’s car, under the ever-watchful and disapproving gaze of Serena De Rossi.

  “So, has she made many changes?” Norman Climpson asked as Dotty entered Aunt Beanie’s farmhouse kitchen. Even though Norman was in his sixties, there was no grey in his sandy-coloured hair, but the broken veins in his permanently tanned face betrayed a man who’d spent the majority of his life outdoors. He sat at the pine kitchen table watching Aunt Beanie pull a large black kettle to the edge of a hot plate on her Aga range cooker.

  “And we really must find a better place for Agatha to sleep,” he added.

  Agatha was a black Berkshire pig who’d been a small piglet when she’d been given to Aunt Beanie the previous autumn. Although her breed was not large, her prostrate body extended across the entire front of the Aga, absorbing as much heat as she could.

  Norman shook his head. “One of these days, we’ll drop something hot on her. I think I’ll remove those shelves beside the Aga and build her a bed. Then she can sleep on or under it, whichever takes her fancy.”

  “Earl Grey will like that,” noted Dotty. Her furry grey British blue cat lifted his head and stared at her with his bright yellow eyes. He was laying on top of Agatha. The two had become great friends since Dotty had moved into the adjoining farm cottage. Most of the time, she left the door open between the two properties so Earl Grey could wander in and out at will.

  “Tea?” asked Aunt Beanie.

  “Yes, please,” replied Dotty as she sat down next to Norman. She glanced across at the conservatory extension to the kitchen where Aunt Beanie’s husband, Uncle Cliff, sat in an armchair, wearing a pair of headphones. He had dementia, but listening to podcasts about farming or nature seemed to keep him calm and content.

  “So back to Windrush Hall and its new owner, Zenobia Richardson. What is the house like?” asked Norman.

  “You really should come with me next time I’m taking a group around,” replied Aunt Beanie as she placed cups of tea in front of Dotty and Norman and sat down.

  “Who’d look after Cliff?” responded Norman. He’d moved into the farmhouse at the same time Dotty had taken the farm cottage and he helped Aunt Beanie care for Uncle Cliff, and undertook odd jobs around the farm. He’d also persuaded Aunt Beanie to hire contractors to run the main farming business, something Uncle Cliff was no longer able to do.

  “I think she’s done an amazing job,” said Dotty, brightly. “I’m so pleased the drawing room has been restored, but I think it’s strange that she kept the old Duke’s family portraits on the dining room walls.”

  “I believe it gives her a sense of heritage,” declared Aunt Beanie, “although I explain exactly who they all are on my tour.”

  She looked across at Norman. “Thank you for recommendi
ng me as a tour guide, and for persuading me to come out of retirement. I really enjoyed today, and American tourists aren’t nearly as stupid as people make out. There were one or two questions where I had to fudge the answers. I’ll need to prep more before Zenobia’s next private event.”

  “Well, it won’t be next weekend. Akemans are hosting The Antique Tour television show at Charbury Castle Hotel,” announced Norman.

  “Of course, but how will my niece, George, cope with that?”

  Georgina Carey Boyd, known as George, ran the auction side of Akemans while her warm-hearted but disorganised sister, Gilly Wimsey, ran the antiques centre.

  Norman shrugged. “She’ll be calm and professional once the event starts and the cameras roll, but a neurotic nightmare in the run up to it next week. Which is one reason I’ve been asked to work all week, if you remember?”

  “Of course. I’ve already asked Mrs Todd to sit with Cliff on Wednesday morning so I can visit Fairford market.” She stood up. “Time for supper.”

  Dotty unwrapped the foil parcels Françoise had given them and arranged their contents on blue and white Wedgwood patterned plates.

  “What about you?” Aunt Beanie asked her. “What are your plans for the week?”

  “I’m not involved in the TV show, thankfully, as they have their own production team and receptionists. That’s what they call the ladies who meet and greet the public, and direct them to the most relevant professional valuers. So I’ll be keeping my head down in the office and organising Lots for this month’s auction.”