A Study in Murder (Victorian Book Club Mystery 1)

Amy dipped her head. “Thank you for the compliment.”

“Although this is all quite amusing, I must state again that, surely, you jest. E. D. Burton is most definitely a man. A very talented man. No woman could write such things.”

While she enjoyed his praise of her books, it was a tad insulting that he could not stretch his imagination far enough to believe a woman could write mysteries. At least this woman, anyway. In fact, she was becoming more than a bit annoyed. If he had told her he was truly Arthur Conan Doyle, she would not have interrogated him in such a manner. It stung that men had such an opinion of women.

“No, I do not jest, and yes, a woman could write such things. Because I do.”

She reached down and scooped up Persephone, who had graced them with her presence once again. She settled comfortably on Amy’s lap and then proceeded to stare up at William.

“Let me understand this. You are E. D. Burton, whose books we’ve read and discussed at the Mystery Book Club.”

She nodded, unable to keep the grin from her face at his discombobulation.

William jumped up and ran his fingers through his hair, turning in a circle. He pinched the bridge of his nose, stopped, and looked at her, his hands on his hips. “E. D. Burton?”

There was really no need to once again claim her alternate identity. Honestly, the man was becoming almost boorish in his refusal to believe her. She just sat and stared at him.

“Why?” He almost choked on the word. “Why would a sweet young woman such as yourself write horror stories?”

He thought she was sweet? How very nice. She almost forgave him for his stubbornness.

Almost.

“Do you wish to know why I write them, or why it has been a secret? And why am I telling you this now?”

“Yes.” He waved his hand around as if directing an orchestra. “All of the above.”

She gave herself a minute to consider. She’d never really thought too much about her desire to tell stories, except that ever since she’d been a young girl she’d always seemed to have a story in her head. For as odd as that sounded.

“I write them because I can. And I must. That is the only explanation I can give you, the only one that makes sense. To me, at least. When I began writing seriously, Papa was appalled. I made the mistake of letting him read my first manuscript, and he was a bit overwhelmed by some of the details in the murder scenes.”

“Indeed. I remember wondering if the club should even read a couple of those books because of the tender sensibilities of the ladies.”

“I have no tender sensibilities.”

“Clearly.”

Not sure if she’d just been insulted, she continued. “Anyway, when I told him I had received a contract for the book, he ordered—which didn’t work too well with me—then asked nicely if I would use a pseudonym.”

“And E. D. Burton was born?”

She grinned. “Yes.”

> “I am afraid that I don’t know whether I am also appalled or impressed.”

“Impressed would be nice.”

He stared off into the distance at the portraits of her dead and unknown ancestors gracing the west wall of the drawing room. The ones Papa couldn’t abide looking at in his London townhouse library so had sent here.

She could see the emotions playing over William’s face. Stubborn disbelief, denial, then finally acceptance. Apparently, something she’d said had convinced him. “Aside from that—I now bow to your superior knowledge in solving murders—you are the one under suspicion for Mr. St. Vincent’s murder. What do you intend to do?”

She tilted her head and looked at him. Sometimes it appeared the man was a dunderhead. “To find the true killer.” She hopped up, dumping the dog to the floor once again. “You were here for the meeting just now. You know as well as I do that Detective Carson and his cohort have already decided I am the murderer and they won’t spend a great deal of time looking for the true culprit. Instead, they will investigate me and try to build a case on the fact that St. Vincent had been my betrothed. I broke the engagement, and now he is dead. If we don’t do something ourselves, I could end up swinging from the end of a rope.” She gripped her neck and blanched.

“We? When did ‘I will solve the murder’ become we?”

She raised her chin, adopting her best lofty demeanor. “If you have no regard for my future well-being, will you at least consider that if I am charged with this crime, the true killer would go free? Possibly to murder again.”

“Yes. There is that.”