We are delighted to welcome author B. Lloyd to Omnimystery News today.
B.'s new Julia Warren mystery is Of Soul Sincere (Holland House; April 2016 trade paperback and ebook formats) and to introduce you to it, she has graciously provided us with an excerpt.
— ♦ —
DEAR MISS WARREN,
Something has turned up, and I find I must work on a couple of things in my study. Roland will be at your disposal for the day; indeed, I have suggested a visit to the Exhibition at the British Museum might be of interest,
Regards,
A.Paglar
Punctilious as ever, Paglar had the note delivered to Julia at breakfast by Merry; Roland, a trifle bleary-eyed from a late night at his Club, brightened visibly at the prospect of a day out. 'There's the Chamber of Horrors at Madame Tussauds if you prefer,' he suggested, with a tinge of hope in his voice.
Julia had no real preference either way — she might almost have foregone the outing altogether to work further on her book, but the look of grateful delight on Roland's face when she accepted his suggestion told her she had found a firm ally.
'I shall arrange for the car to take us at eleven if that would suit? Capital! Oh, and lunch at the Savoy, if you like?'
'Goodness, that does sound inviting. I feel rather spoiled.'
'My uncle wants you to be as comfortable as possible, for all that he's a dry old stick …'
Julia tried not to feel too guilty about leaving her manuscript all day; a day away from it would surely do no harm. That mild feeling of oppression or nervousness had returned and she felt in need of fresh air.
She did however slip one of her smaller notebooks into her bag and almost hurried downstairs out into the garden.
There was nearly an hour to wait now for the car. Julia ambled along the rose beds, and paused at the wooden seat against the wall. She remembered the voices she had heard and wondered whether she could have imagined them. There was a breeze, a soft sussuration running through tree and bush. A butterfly danced about, fluttering close to her nose at one point, before moving off on a random flight across the rose beds, leading her eye to the disused coach house.
Julia got up, infected by the butterfly's restlessness. She wandered up to the building and stood at the entrance, now long bereft of an actual door.
Horses had not slept here for a very long time. The straw had since been swept away, leaving only the odd dried husk about, and the old family carriage stood at the further end, by a window. The rays of sun showed up a film of dust and cobwebs on the dark hulk, the faded cloth on the seats within. Stained, worn, broken … 'Yet still standing upright,' thought Julia as she gazed at it. 'Like the house. Like Paglar himself.' The overall feeling was of so many bits and pieces, so many parts of the house, having grown up with Paglar together into one seamless whole. Without the house one felt there would be no Paglar. And without Paglar, Julia thought, there would be no house. If the one went, the other would surely become spiritless and lie broken and empty like the carriage before her.
Spiritless. At the moment, the whole building seemed to be suffering from a surfeit of spirits. Popping in and out of bedrooms, crossing hallways, falling from windows. Julia tried to restrain a quick shudder at the recollection. That had been no more a dream. Admittedly vivid, but still a dream. And possibly the other incidents … tricks of the light, egged on by tiredness, and suggestion. 'I should, I really should try to be less impressionable,' she decided.
'She's lying in the flower bed,' came a man's voice from outside. Julia walked over to the window and peered out. There was a plain view of the whole area leading to the house. Completely devoid of people. The voice had been very clear. Quite close, too. She turned to look more closely at the carriage itself. The paint, underneath the dust, only showed slight cracks and tiny blisters. If cleaned, it could pass for being in reasonable condition. 'A shame they no longer keep horses,' she thought, standing on tiptoe to peer in. Even the cushions looked fairly well sprung, still. She felt a child-like desire to open the door and try … Click. Quite how it happened she was never entirely certain, but the door slipped open and swung a little in her direction. Perhaps she brushed against it and the mechanism, weak with age, had given way. She stretched a hand in to feel the cushion. Powdery deep red velvet. Her nose tickled and she sneezed abruptly. A good dusting would be in order. Her gaze lingered on the seat, and she wondered briefly how many Paglars had reclined there in the past, how many new brides brought to the house, how many children taken out on visits in it, daughters to balls, sons to clubs and gaming houses … sons. Something else her host had chosen so far to be reticent about. Presumably that was to come. From what Ainsworth had said, it did not seem there had been much love lost between them. She decided it was time to go, and was already moving away when her eye caught sight of the trunk under the seat. In fact, she would not even have noticed the trunk but for the label. Faded, curling, tied to the handle with aged string, it spoke of sad abandonment. Who had last used this? And when? On holiday? Or had it done service as a picnic hamper? It squatted there, unimpressive, solid, durable, sensible. Very much the practical family item.
Footsteps grated up to the door and a boyish voice called out. 'I say — anyone in there? Is that you, Julia?' Julia pushed the door shut and stepped out from behind the carriage. Roland was in the doorway, slightly flustered. He was obviously relieved to see her.
'I say,' he began again, with that quirky shrug of the left shoulder, 'there's all hell to pay: the old man's got himself locked in the cellar. We can't seem to shift the door. So it looks like we'll be stuck here for the time being, I'm off to fetch the locksmith. Do you mind awfully?'
'Not at all.' Julia dusted down her jacket. Cobwebs had taken a shine to her elbows. 'Don't worry about it, shall I stand outside the cellar door and shout comforting nothings through it, or is somebody already doing that?'
'No, Merry's already doing that, thanks, I'm just sorry it's got in the way of the trip to the Exhibition. Still, another day, tomorrow I should think they will be open.'
'Yes, quite, I am sure that will do very well. But now you must let me do something.'
'Well, actually, if you wouldn't mind telephoning for Doctor Mallard, in case the old man needs attention when we get him out; you never know, it might have given his old ticker a bit of a jolt?' Roland looked mildly plaintive. The sheep-like element never seemed very far from a great many of the young men she encountered in Town. Julia wondered briefly if it could be something to do with the air.
'I shall see to it straight away. Oh dear, how very uncomfortable for him.' They rushed to the house, Julia still rubbing clingy threads of web from her sleeves.
Inside the old stall the carriage creaked a little as the heat of the day drew off and the wood responded. Some of the cobwebs drifted across, feather-like, fingering the handle on the carriage door, slipping inside to caress the seat cushions, floating and spiralling gently down to rest on the cracked, curling label, as if to peruse the sepia lettering on it. The delivery address was somewhere a little way out of town. The name above the address was Miss A. Lawson, spinster.
— ♦ —
After studying Early Music in Italy followed by a brief career in concert performance, B. Lloyd exchanged vocal parts for less vocal arts i.e. a Diploma from the Accademia di Belle Arti di Venezia.
Her inky mess, both graphic and verbal, can be found in various regions of the Internet, and appendaged to good people's works (for no visible reason that she can understand).
For more information about the author, please visit her website and her author page on Goodreads, or find her Twitter.
— ♦ —
Of Soul Sincere by B. Lloyd
A Julia Warren Mystery
Publisher: Holland House
When invited by her publisher to assist a well-respected M.P. in writing his memoirs, Julia Warren is at first reluctant to concentrate on anything other than her next novel; however, circumstances (involving among other things unexpected plumbing) conspire to change her mind and she finds herself at once guest and employee at the great man's rather bohemian household.
Almost immediately she encounters memories from the past, of a rather unsettling nature.
