Gone West now in paperback

by Carola Dunn

GONE WEST (a BritSpeak idiom meaning died or disappeared) is the 20th mystery in my Daisy Dalrymple series, set in England in the 1920s. It came out in hardcover in the US (and paperback in the UK) a year ago and the US paperback edition is just out. It's also available for Kindle, Nook, and other ebook formats, and in large print.

This is an excerpt from the first chapter. You can read a bit from later in the book here: http://historicalfictionexcerpts.blogspot.com/2012/01/gone-west-daisy-dalrymple-mystery-by.html

Lucy had chosen a table next to the ornamental brass rail, banked with flowers, that separated the green and gold balcony from the oval opening to the main dining room below. Though a professional photographer, Lucy was also a member of fashionable society, from sleek dark Eton crop to scarlet-painted fingertips to barely knee-length hemline. It was typical of her to want a good view of the other patrons of the establishment.

That was not the reason she gave for her choice. "Darling, I thought we'd better hide up here. I have a frightful feeling that Sybil has probably turned into the sort of dowd one doesn't care to be seen with."

"How unkind! Why?"

"You said she wrote from a farm, in Derbyshire of all places."

"What's wrong with Derbyshire? Ever heard of Chatsworth?"

"Of course, but the country seat of the Duke of Devonshire can hardly be compared to a farm-house!"

"Hush, I think this must be Sybil coming up the stairs now. She looks vaguely familiar. And quite smart enough to associate with me, if not at your exalted level. You're always telling me I have no notion of fashion."

The young woman ascending the staircase wore a heather-mixture tweed costume. Daisy was no expert, but the skirt and jacket looked to her to be quite nicely cut, though well-worn, making the best of a figure somewhat on the sturdy side. The lavender cloche hat, adorned with a small spray of speckled feathers, matched the silk blouse. A string of pearls, silk stockings and good leather shoes, low-heeled, completed the picture of a well-to-do if not fashion-conscious country dweller visiting the capital.

Sybil Sutherby certainly didn't look like a typical farmer's wife. Though, like Daisy, her only make-up was a dab of powder on her nose and a touch of lipstick, her face was not noticeably weathered. In fact, she was rather pale, accentuating a dismayed expression that Daisy put down to Lucy's unexpected presence.

"Hello, Sybil. How nice to see you after all these years," said Daisy, stretching the truth somewhat.

"Daisy, you haven't changed a bit." They shook hands.

The waiter seated Sybil, handed menus all round, and departed.

"You remember Lucy? Fotheringay as was."

"Lucy. Of course." She hesitated. "It's Lady Gerald, isn't it?"

"So you keep up with the news, Mrs. Sutherby," Lucy drawled. "How do you do?"

"For pity's sake," Daisy said, annoyed, "we were all spotty schoolgirls together. Let's not stand on our dignities. I'm going to decide what I want for lunch, and then I'd like to hear what you're up to these days, Sybil."

Discussing the choices on the à la carte menu thawed the ice between Lucy and Sybil a bit, to Daisy's relief. 

.....

The waiter returned and took their order.

After a moment of slightly uncomfortable silence, Sybil said abruptly, "I've read some of your articles, Daisy. You write very well."

Lucy gave Daisy a knowing look. "What about you, Sybil?" she asked with a hint of a sarcastic inflection. "Have you settled into a life of cosy domesticity?"

Sybil flushed. "Far from it. My husband was killed in the War. I was lucky enough to find a job quite quickly, as...as secretary to an author. A live-in job, where I can have my little girl with me." Her hand went to her necklace. "I didn't even have to sell Mother's pearls. And I've been there ever since."

Daisy decided it was a bit late to start expressing condolences which would inevitably lead to further, endless condolences. Everyone had lost someone in the War including her own brother and her fiancé, or in the influenza pandemic, which had killed her father, the late Viscount Dalrymple. She seized on a less emotionally fraught topic. "Is your author someone I might have read?"

"I doubt it. A rather...specialised field. But I did hope to have a word with you, Daisy..." She glanced sideways at Lucy.

"About your work? Go ahead. Lucy won't mind. Underneath the frivolous exterior, she's a working woman too."

"I don't think..."

"You haven't got yourself involved in the production of 'blue' books, have you?" Lucy's question was blunt, but for once her tone was discreetly lowered.

"Certainly not!"

"Sorry. It's just that the way you said 'a rather specialised field' tends to leave one to jump to conclusions."

Daisy laughed. "I'm prepared to swear that's not the conclusion I jumped to. What's the matter, Sybil?"

"I'd prefer to talk to you later."

"No can do. Lucy and I have an appointment with our joint editor immediately after lunch. But Lucy knows all my secrets—well, almost all. She's not going to blurt out your troubles to all and sundry."

"Silent as the grave," said Lucy. "Cross my heart and hope to die. My lips are sealed."

"Be serious," Daisy admonished her severely, "or why should Sybil trust you?"

"It's not so much—" Sybil began, but the waiter interrupted, arriving with their soup.

By the time he went away again, she had made up her mind.

"All right, if you say so, Daisy. I wasn't sure whether... I know you married a detective, and I heard that you've helped him to investigate several crimes."

"Lucy, have you been telling tales, after I've been crying up your discretion?"

"Darling, I'm not the only one aware of your criminous activities. What about your Indian friend?"

"I hardly think Sakari would have any opportunity to spill the beans to Sybil!"

"But there have been at least a couple of other old school pals you've saved from the hangman. Word gets around."

"It's nothing like that!" Sybil exclaimed. "Not murder, I mean. Just a mystery of sorts. There's probably nothing in it."

"In what?" Daisy asked.

"It's an uncomfortable, troubled atmosphere, really. I feel as if something's going on, but I can't pin it down. That's why I want your help."

"If you can't be precise," said Lucy impatiently, "how do you expect her to advise you?"

"I was hoping you'd come and stay for a few days, Daisy. I'm hoping you'll tell me it's all in my imagination."

Lucy looked at her as if she was mad. Daisy was intrigued. She had indeed been caught up in the investigation of a number of unpleasant occurrences, but they had all been concrete acts of a violent nature. A mysterious atmosphere would make a change and might prove interesting. What was more, with no crime in the offing, Alec could hardly object to her going to stay with an old friend.

 http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/gone-west-carola-dunn/1104154902?ean=9781250021595

http://www.amazon.com/Gone-West-Dalrymple-Mystery-Mysteries/dp/1250021596/ref=pd_sim_sbs_b_5

Large print

Anthem for Doomed Youth II

by Carola Dunn,

 

 author of the Daisy Dalrymple Mysteries, the Cornish Mysteries, and over 30 Regencies. 

I'm revisiting Anthem for Doomed Youth because it's been chosen as part of a Barnes and Noble promotion for Downton Abbey. There seem to be some problems with the promo--many stores apparently haven't even heard of it, and though my newly reprinted book is in the stores, I've so far had no reports of it being sighted in those displays that have been put up!

My previous excerpts from Anthem are here: http://historicalfictionexcerpts.blogspot.com/2012/03/anthem-for-doomed-youth.html
along with more information about the book.

 [Daisy has been playing with her toddler twins in the nursery when the parlourmaid comes to say Scotland Yard is on the phone.]

 

She hurried downstairs, filled with foreboding. When Alec rang up in the middle of the day, it invariably meant a disruption of their plans. Not that plans were ever anything but tentative when one's husband was a Detective Chief Inspector at Scotland Yard, liable to be called to the outer reaches of the kingdom at a moment's notice.

She picked up the "daffodil" stand, sat down on the chair by the hall table, and put the receiver to her ear. "Tom?"

"Afternoon, Mrs Fletcher. How's my godson?"

"Screaming for Dada. Healthy lungs! But I assume he won't be seeing him for a while?"

"The Chief'll have to tell you about that. Can you hold on half a mo, please, he's on another telephone."

"Of course. How is Mrs Tring?"

"Blooming." DS Tring adored his wife, a large woman though not as large as Tom. That didn't stop his having a wonderful way with female servants when he needed to extract information. "And Miss Miranda?"

"Likewise. Her vocabulary grows by leaps and bounds. Not quite up to yours yet."

"I'll have to look to my laurels."

Daisy pictured his luxuriant moustache twitching as he grinned. "Belinda's pretty good too. It's her school sports day on Saturday. Oh no, don't tell me—"

"There's no way of knowing, Mrs Fletcher. Here's the Chief."

"Alec? Darling, you're not going to miss Bel's sports day, are you?"

"I hope not. If we haven't made an arrest by then, I might be able to sneak away for the afternoon. Epping can't be more than forty miles from Saffron Walden."

"You're only going to Epping? I was afraid it might be Northumberland."

"You always are, love. I can't think why."

"Because it's so far away. But Epping— You'll come home for the night, then?"

"Yes, but don't wait dinner for me."

"Don't half the murderers in London bury bodies in Epping Forest?"

"It's often been considered a convenient spot." Alec sounded amused.

"If that's where you're going, don't forget to take Wellington boots. It's still belting down."

"The forecast's for a clearing trend tonight. Let's hope they're right for once."

Daisy jumped to the obvious conclusion. "So you are going to dig up a body in Epping Forest?"

"Three of them. For a start. I'm only telling you because there's no conceivable way you can get yourself mixed up in this case."

"Of course not! But do be careful, darling. I'd hate for the fourth body to be you."

"No fear of that, love. I must run."

"Should I tell Mrs Dobson to leave something out for you?"

"No, I'll pick up a bite to eat somewhere. Coming, Tom!" He said good-bye and rang off.

Daisy hung up. Three bodies! Assuming they had all been killed by the same person—a madman? Or perhaps a member of an East End gang?—there would be a lot of pressure on the police to arrest someone before another murder followed. Not that Alec didn't always clear up his cases as quickly as possible.

Still, today was Wednesday. It didn't seem likely that he would be finished by Saturday, or even free to take an afternoon off. Poor Belinda! Though happy at school, she was so looking forward to seeing them. She would have to make do with her stepmother. Luckily she was used to Daddy disappearing at unpredictable intervals. She had been a detective's daughter much longer than Daisy had been a detective's wife. 

So Daisy goes off to visit her stepdaughter (at the school I went to much later on!), and inevitable gets mixed up in a murder--which may be connected with Alec's case--or maybe not. 

Gone West - a Daisy Dalrymple Mystery by Carola Dunn

Excerpt from GONE WEST, a Daisy Dalrymple mystery, set in Derbyshire in 1926. Published January 2012 by St Martin's Minotaur. My website/blog is http://www.caroladunn.weebly.com/ and I'm on Facebook. So is Daisy, with her own page.

"Pink gin, sir?" Simon offered his father.
"Thank you, my boy." He looked at the doctor and said half laughing, half defensively, "No need to look like a stuffed turkey, Knox. I didn't have a drink with my lunch."
"I'm glad to hear it."
"You see, Mrs. Fletcher, cowboys are—or were in my day—a hard-drinking bunch, and the habit is hard to abandon. The hooch we used to drink was known as whisky, but they had only the name in common. As pond water to Malvern! To this day the very word brings back the taste, and I never touch anything that goes by the name of whisky."
Daisy didn't feel it incumbent upon her to comment on his drinking habits. "You actually worked as a cowboy, Mr. Birtwhistle?"
"For a few years. I went looking for adventure but I started life in America as a humble tout for a travelling quack. The English accent impressed the rubes—the local yokels. I'd stand up on the seat at the front of the wagon and give the spiel, and they'd be queuing up at the side to buy 'Dr. Pangloss's Potent Purple Pastilles, Patent Pending.'"
"Pangloss. Voltaire?" she asked cautiously.
"'All is for the best, in the best of all possible worlds.' The chances of any of our marks having heard of Candide were extremely slim, but if they had, what could be better for their health than a little optimism?" Almost inaudibly he added, "It's what keeps me going."
Thinking it best to ignore this comment, Daisy said, "I hope the Potent Pastilles didn't actually kill anyone."
"Not in my time. They were made with 'the best butter.' Chicle, actually, the stuff they make chewing-gum from. Purple dye from beetroot and he wouldn't tell me what else. Useless, perhaps, but not deadly. We sold them in tins of twenty, to be taken one a day, no miracle cures to be expected till the entire course was finished."
Daisy laughed. "By which time you'd left town, to avoid being tarred and feathered."
"Of course. We headed west, and by the time we reached cowboy country I'd saved enough money to buy a decent horse. As I wanted to see the country, I moved from ranch to ranch, from Montana down to Old Mexico."
"Old Mexico?"
"As opposed to New Mexico, one of the United States."
"Oh yes. Alec—my husband—and I didn't have time to go there."
"You've been to America, Mrs. Fletcher?"
"Just a short visit, most of it spent in Washington and New York. But we flew across the country to Oregon and returned by train."
"You flew! You had a very different view from mine, then, crawling along at horse-speed. That must have been interesting."
"A lot of the scenery was beautiful from the air, but the aeroplane was so noisy and I was so cold, I wasn't able to appreciate it properly at the time. The view from the train was better, of course, but limited. You spent several years in the West, I gather. You must have loved the country to have stayed so long."
"I did, and do. I have a special fondness for New Mexico, which is where I met Ruby. She misses it. We always intended to go back some day for a visit, until this wretched illness overtook me. But we won't talk of that. Ruby was a school-marm, as they called it, in a one-horse town. I was a nearly penniless cow-hand. So I took my grub-stake to Nevada, went prospecting, and struck silver."
"Right away?" Daisy asked in surprise.
He laughed. "Not quite. But soon enough to make some of the old-timers look green. It was a nice seam of ore."
"What luck!"
"Yes, and if I'd worked it, I might have ended up richer, or I might have ended up dead. I didn't care to spend my time watching over my shoulder for claim-jumpers. In any case, the life of a miner didn't appeal, and Ruby was waiting—I hoped. So I sold out, went back to New Mexico, and got married. I was negotiating for some land when the news reached me, by what roundabout route I never did discover, that my father had died the previous year. Add the fact that New Mexico was suffering a serious drought, and I decided to head for home."
Glancing at Mrs. Birtwhistle, Daisy wondered whether she had had any say in the decision to leave her home and her country. She caught Daisy's eye and came over, looking anxious.
Daisy explained, "Mr. Birtwhistle's been telling me about his career, or careers, rather, in America, and how much he loved your part of the country."
"New Mexico is very beautiful. I miss it, especially when the winter rains set in here!" She laid a hand on her husband's shoulder. "But it just wasn't the right time to try to get a start in ranching. Even well-established people were in trouble because of the dreadful drought—not something you can imagine here in England. Also, there was Humphrey's family to be considered."
"He'd've done better to have stayed away." The muttered comment coming unexpectedly from behind Daisy made her jump. "We were doing very well without."
The dog, back in his spot on the hearthrug, creaked to his feet and moved stiffly to meet the speaker.
Birtwhistle's eyes briefly flickered towards the newcomer, then turned up to his wife. Her gaze was fixed on the intruder in an inimical stare. Birtwhistle raised his hand to cover Ruby's on his shoulder. She glanced down at him and nodded.
"Hello, Norman," she said in a neutral voice. "Let me introduce you. Mrs. Fletcher, this is Humphrey's brother, Norman."
Norman wore a baggy, shaggy tweed suit and an air of disgruntlement that had carved permanent lines into his face. Daisy added this to his sister Lorna's general put-upon-ness and realised that the Prodigal's return had not been welcomed by his siblings. Thirty years later, they still resented it. Did Humphrey now own Eyrie Farm, left to him by a father in a dynastic mood, or were the three forced uneasily to share?

Carola Dunn