The strangled servant, p.1
The Strangled Servant, page 1
The Strangled Servant
The Perfect Poison Murders, Book 1
A Georgian Mystery
E.L. Johnson
© Copyright 2022 by E.L. Johnson
Text by E.L. Johnson
Cover by Wicked Smart Designs
Dragonblade Publishing, Inc. is an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc.
P.O. Box 7968
La Verne CA 91750
ceo@dragonbladepublishing.com
Produced in the United States of America
First Edition January 2022
Kindle Edition
Reproduction of any kind except where it pertains to short quotes in relation to advertising or promotion is strictly prohibited.
All Rights Reserved.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Publisher’s Note
Acknowledgments
Historical Note
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
About the Author
Big thanks go to Kathryn, Shawn, Amelia, and Dragonblade Publishing’s wonderful team for bringing this novel to life. I’d also like to thank my family for their constant support, and my critique partners and good friends at BITC for making me feel valued and appreciated as a writer. Thank you all.
Historical Note
There’s a lot of research that goes into any historical fiction, and this novel is no exception. I loved diving into the Hertfordshire County Archives to see the prices of items, and for accessing old maps of the town to get a picture of what life could have looked like back in the early 1800s. To that end, I did take some artistic license with the use of caltrops, so any historical inaccuracies in this book are mine and mine alone.
While this novel is entirely fiction, the character Henry Dyngley is inspired by a real person. In my former studies as an MPhil student in history, I examined the 16th-century remedy book of Henry Dyngley, a verderer based at Hanley Castle, in Worcestershire. While the castle no longer remains, Dyngley’s book does, and it contains hundreds of medieval remedies on how to cure illnesses, as well as some recipes given to him for women’s health issues, including pregnancy concerns. At the time it struck me as odd that a verderer would own a book of medical receipts, likely written in his own hand, that included these. The more I read, the more I imagined Henry as a dark-haired constable, solving crimes.
Chapter One
Hertfordshire, 1806
It was a warm morning in early May when Tom sought Poppy out, staying behind after church rather than vying with others to be the first to leave.
She had just joined the queue of parishioners exiting St. Mary’s Church when she felt a light tap on her shoulder. She turned around, but only an elderly woman stood there, her face lined in a frown. She turned back again to find Tom grinning at her.
“Hullo, Poppy.”
He looked dashing as ever in his perfectly tied white cravat, smart burgundy waistcoat and dark brown overcoat. From the top of his dusky blond hair and the strong tilt of his chin to his sly smile and dancing hazel eyes, their every exchange gave her a thrill.
“Tom.” She inclined her head.
“Could I have a word?” he asked, his expression serious.
“You don’t have to ask permission.” She adjusted her straw bonnet.
“There is a matter of great import I need to discuss with you.” He ran a hand through his hair.
Her heart skipped a beat. “All right.”
She looked to her aunt, who gave a knowing smile and turned away, chattering to the parishioners as they filed out of the church.
Once outside, Poppy and Tom walked down the dusty dirt path leading away from the church, through an area plentiful with leafy green trees. A nightingale trilled and her heart lifted as Tom began, “We have been friends a long time, haven’t we? Ever since I fell in the pond, and you fished me out.” He grinned.
“You were nine. I couldn’t very well sit by while you were pretending to be a fish,” she teased.
He bit his lip. “Yes. But I am older now. I have more serious things to think about than ponds.”
She swallowed. The sun beat down on her bonnet and her palms sweated inside her linen gloves. She rubbed her right hand against the stiff fabric of her light blue overcoat.
He took her left hand in his and squeezed. “Poppy, I…”
Her heart beat in her chest, so loud she was sure he could hear it. This was the moment. This was when Tom would say those three delightful words and make her the happiest woman alive. “Yes?”
His hazel eyes danced. “I’ve decided to ask Mary to marry me.”
She froze. Her hand dropped from his.
The sun hid behind a trio of clouds. Weeping willows looked down on her, the nightingale had disappeared, and an owl hooted mournfully nearby.
She blinked hard. When she looked at Tom again, her features were pulled into a tight smile. “That’s wonderful. Congratulations.”
“I know. She’s going to say yes, but the big question is whether to ask her now, or at the dance. Which do you think she’ll like better?”
“Uh…”
“The dance, of course. You’re right. You know me so well. She loves a show, and she and I are so alike, don’t you think?” He rubbed his hands together. “I’ll do it tonight, in front of everyone. But I won’t have the courage if you’re not there. You’ll be there, won’t you?”
She nodded, trying not to cry.
He took her hands and whirled her around, like in a quadrille. His happy laughter mocked her and she pushed his hands away, stepping aside.
“Poppy, what’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing. I’m just so happy for you.” Her voice shook. She looked down, thankful for the shade of her bonnet.
“Thank you. You must save me the first two dances. I won’t take no for an answer. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must decide on which waistcoat to wear tonight.” He walked off, whistling a jaunty tune.
Poppy didn’t care any longer if anyone saw. She didn’t care that Tom had cheerfully lied about wanting to dance with her. He always promised and never did.
No, she hated herself for caring at all.
She walked home, her feet dragging with every step. Tears blurred her vision and she let out a breath that sounded too much like a sob. She stumbled once, jagged pebbles biting into her sturdy, brown leather boots. As soon as she was safely inside the parsonage, she sagged against the strong wooden door and sobbed until she felt weak and weary, and her eyes smarted from weeping.
Poppy had promised Tom she would be at the assembly rooms that evening, and so she would. Her heavy fingers tore at the tangled strings of her bonnet. She was determined to put on a pleasant front. By the time the family had arrived at the dance, no one would know of the pain that ripped inside her chest, or of how she’d cried so hard her eyes were red and her throat felt raw.
No, instead she let their maid, Betsey, take extra care to pin her long brown locks into submission around her head. At a glance in her small looking gl ass, it almost looked pretty.
That night the assembly rooms were welcoming, with many tallow candles dotting the room like warm stars. Inside there was a crush of people from town, dancing, talking, laughing. As her aunt and uncle escorted her inside, she wore a tight smile and sought out the first footman she could find, accepting a glass of wine.
Poppy’s relatives quickly sought out the company of their friends, which left her alone at the sidelines. She watched and drank as dancers turned and met, sharing intimate looks as fleeting as barely touching hands. And there she laid eyes on the young woman who was both her best friend and her rival for Tom’s affections.
Mary Pendle danced with many partners, her pink dress aflutter as she laughed and clapped her hands. She caught Poppy’s eye and waved as she was whisked away by more than one affable young man, only to laugh at them and come to Poppy’s side.
“Oh Poppy,” she breathed, “I have spent this whole time dancing, I can barely catch my breath. But why do you not join in?”
“No one has asked me.”
“Oh, well, I can tell Joseph Dwyer to, he won’t mind. He owes me a favor. Or Neville Conn, he’s already begged me for a private audience tonight.” She smirked.
“No, Mary, I’m fine. I don’t need you to ask a young man for me.” Poppy’s face flushed.
Tom entered their field of vision, looking comely with his smartly combed blonde hair, piercing hazel eyes and strong chin that set her heart aflutter. He wore a smart, rust-colored waistcoat embroidered with gold thread that caught the light, with a snowy white shirt and fresh cravat.
He bowed, only having eyes for one of them. “Mary, might I have the next dance?”
“Oh, Tom, no need to be so formal.” She laughed and took his hand.
Poppy helped herself to a second glass of wine, then a third. A short while later, she overheard Mary say, “But why won’t you ask her? She’s nice enough.”
“The clergyman’s niece? She drinks too much and she’s far too tall. I’ll look like a fool.”
She didn’t need to turn around to see a young, short man walk away from Mary. Shame washed over her from head to toe. Was it possible to die from embarrassment?
The room now felt uncomfortably warm, her cheeks were flushed from too much wine, and an unladylike burp erupted from her mouth. She clasped a hand to her mouth and giggled. Under the bright candlelight and pinned against the wall of the packed room of the assembly, she risked a glance at Tom.
His teasing eyes trailed down the length of her body, noting her maidenly curves. When he met her gaze, she felt as if she graced the assembly wearing the prettiest new silk from London, instead of a faded green dress and light lavender shawl two years out of fashion. But now Mary was talking, dragging her from his sight.
Poppy couldn’t pay attention. She flashed Tom a shy smile and let Mary pull her outside, into the quiet solitude of a small balcony. Poppy breathed in gulps of cool night air and used her shawl to fan herself as Mary shut the fragile glass doors.
“Well, that’s done it. He’s gone and ruined a perfectly good evening,” Mary said.
“What do you mean? Who?” Poppy asked.
“Tom. He’s proposed to me.”
Poppy’s right hand stiffened on the iron balcony railing as she mumbled, “Congratulations.”
“Oh, no need to sound so polite. I need your help. I want you to tell Tom I am rejecting his marriage proposal,” Mary said.
Poppy froze. Back inside, two rows of finely dressed dancers spun under the eyes of gossiping matrons and watchful guardians. Distracted from the sight of the ladies’ twirling dresses, keeping in time against the strains of violins, she could almost pretend she hadn’t heard her best friend.
“Did you hear me?” Mary asked, “Poppy, are you listening?”
“You’re joking.” Her warm cheeks cooled.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Mary pursed her lips, a hint against the order of the day. While many young women chose a more natural look with their beauty, Mary held to an older tradition of highlighting her assets, complete with rouged cheeks and a painted pout. “I am perfectly serious. And you as my closest and oldest friend, must do it for me. I can’t bear to see his face when you tell him.”
Poppy gripped the folds of her faded green dress. “Why me?”
“Who else could do it? Tom thinks of you like his own sister. And you’re a sly thing, he said he’d told you this very afternoon of his plan to propose to me. I can’t believe you didn’t say a word!”
“He did tell me. But I can’t, Mary.”
Mary’s smile faltered. “I thought you were my friend.”
“I am.”
“Well, I want you to do this for me. Go tell him. Right now.”
“In front of everyone? Mary, he’s probably told half the assembly you’ve agreed to be his wife.”
Mary flicked a piece of imaginary lint from her new dress, adjusting the bodice of the light pink gown that clung to her curves. Admiring her reflection in the thin glass of the balcony doors, she touched her hair and smiled at what she saw. “I don’t care. I can’t do it, but you’re the stronger one of the two of us. You haven’t a care for other people’s feelings, so I know he’ll appreciate your blunt manner when you tell him.” She touched Poppy’s arm. “Say you’ll do it. I want to go before you do. You know what a fuss he makes when he doesn’t get his way.”
“But why? How could you say yes to his face and then change your mind? Don’t you understand how much that will hurt him? Why didn’t you tell him no, yourself, if you didn’t plan to accept him?” Poppy gripped the cold iron railings of the balcony, feeling the hard metal dig into her hands. An icy shiver ran through her, and she clutched her shawl around her shoulders.
“Because, silly. I’ve told you often enough, I’m engaged to my patron.” Mary twirled in her gown, her teased brown ringlets waving around her head. “Did I tell you how Sir Pelling fell in love at the first sight of me?”
Poppy glanced at Mary’s hands. “Where is he now?”
Mary frowned. “Cambridgeshire, somewhere. He’ll be a baronet someday. And before you ask where my ring is, know this. He will come and collect me as soon as he can.”
“Do you think his family will approve?”
Mary’s glare could have flayed the skin off her back. “Of course they will. It is only a matter of time before we go to Gretna Green and are married. Then his family will have to accept me.”
“Approving is not the same as accepting, Mary.”
Mary rolled her eyes. “Do not pretend to understand men, Poppy. You are innocent in the ways of the world, but I know better.”
“You gave yourself to him, didn’t you? That’s why you’re so sure of his affection. You lost your maidenhead to him.”
Mary pouted. “Don’t be so sour-faced, it causes wrinkles. And don’t judge me. I have enough to worry about without you spreading nasty rumors about me.”
Poppy glanced through the glass, seeing Tom hover nearby. The night air shivered down her bare neck, but she lowered the shawl, knotting it in her hands. “You have no idea how much this will hurt Tom. You know he loves attention; this will embarrass him before everyone.”
“He’ll be fine. A little rejection now and then will do him good. Besides, he will have you to look after him.” Mary gave her a knowing smile. “He’s always proposing to one girl or another, it means nothing.”
“How can you do this, when you know he loves you?”
Mary laughed. “You know nothing of romance. True love is passion and fire, none of these sad, puppy-dog eyes you walk around with.”
“What?”
“I see the way you look at him. Do you think Tom doesn’t know your feelings for him? My God, it is the worst kept secret in town. Everyone knows you fancy him, but no one says a word, and do you know why?”
Poppy could have been made of stone.
“Because they pity you. Your only family is a clergyman and his wife who couldn’t bear children and you’ve not got a farthing to your name. Tom will never love you, not like you wish he would,” Mary snapped. “And I am so tired of you following me around. Did you honestly think Tom would ever care for a foundling like you?”
