A Most Agreeable Murder (Beatrice Steele, #1)

by Julia Seales

Nothing thrilled Mr. Steele more than pretending to die into his soup.

The Steeles had no fortune to fall back on; the house was their only asset. Therefore, should Mr. Steele ever fall into his soup and not pop up cackling, the mansion would pass to their closest male relative, cousin Martin Grub. If one of the girls could simply marry Mr. Grub, everything would be fine, but he was completely disgusting, so this was unlikely.

Beatrice’s corner was an explosion of books, abandoned embroidery projects, and half-drunk cups of tea.

Beatrice joined her, taking an absentminded sip of tea from a cup on her bedside table and then spitting it out upon realizing that it had fermented.

“If you find yourself starting to ask untoward questions, stick something in your mouth.” Beatrice raised her eyebrows at the suggestion. “For example, some soup,” Mrs. Steele added. “I’ll be sure to have a bowl of it at the ready all evening, though it will make dancing difficult,” Beatrice replied.

“It doesn’t fit,” Mrs. Steele said impatiently. “I hope all that cake you’ve been eating was worth sacrificing your entire married future and sending us all to our deaths.” “One must always consider the moral cost of a meal,” Mary said darkly.

No one knew exactly how old he was, just that he hoarded money yet always wore the same old-fashioned, tatty suit. When he had them over for dinner, he requested that they bring the food.

She stopped in front of a long table laden with punch. It was the sisters’ tradition to toast to something before the beginning of every ball; Louisa normally chose a kind concept such as “romance” or “everyone’s happiness.” Beatrice usually toasted to “seeing a new face for once,” which almost always was in vain.

“Could I have some soup?” she said finally, after an awkward moment of silence. “My gullet is parched.” Daniel’s distant expression cleared, and his gaze returned to Beatrice. “Of course,” he said, and promptly doled out some soup and handed it to Beatrice. She gulped it so quickly that it scalded her throat.

He immediately set upon the far end of the refreshments table. She saw him slip several pieces of cheese into his pockets, as well as copius amounts of trifle.

She dropped a quick curtsy and then left Daniel and Mr. Grub by the tureen of white soup. As she was leaving, she passed by Inspector Drake.

She was excellent at drawing, played the harp and pianoforte, took regular walks to maintain a rosy complexion, spoke French and Italian, read sermons daily, wrote poetic letters, cultivated an understanding of basic botany, danced gracefully, nursed injured baby birds back to health, made scones that were never dry, visited the poor and brought them said moist scones, did excellent needlework, and could juggle without ever dropping a ball.

“Caroline,” she began awkwardly, feeling suddenly vulnerable, “perhaps you might join me for a drink before the first dance begins? We could toast to…our friendship.” “How sweet,” Caroline said, smiling, “but I never drink. It’s too much for my delicate constitution. But you are so sturdy; you should enjoy some punch!

The Fàns remained in Swampshire until Frank was of age, and then the homesick Élodie insisted that they return to her true homeland. Frank chose to remain and oversee their estate. However, he often visited their French château, always returning tan and smelling of cheese.

He always used a bit too much, though she had to admit that it had a pleasant, spicy smell that overpowered the Camembert.

Except for Mary, who had snuck down to the kitchens for a snack of meat.

Beatrice makes wonderful scones for the occasion; just dry enough to pair perfectly with a cup of tea.

She collided with her father, who squatted by the soup tureen, taking something from a bag and placing it in the soup. The effect was swift: The tureen fell over, drenching Captain Peña’s uniform. Mr. Steele dropped the bag, and dozens of frogs leapt free.

When I arose this morning there was a chill, and I dressed in my brown wool jacket. I ate one egg for breakfast, along with some tea. By the afternoon the sun came out and it grew very warm. I put on my lighter brown jacket and took a turn about the garden. After this I came inside and had cold pheasant with bread, and more tea.

Once my outfit was restored, I sat down to a dinner of more cold pheasant. This time I had wine instead of tea for my beverage. All in all, it was a very eventful day; you can understand why I thought to record it at once.

Mrs. Steele and Miss Bolton trailed behind, and Beatrice watched as Miss Bolton snaked a hand into her hat and withdrew a biscuit.

“I should get him some more punch. Mother always says that punch encourages dancing.” She gave Beatrice a little nod, excusing herself, and hurried over to the punch table. Beatrice watched Louisa take up the ladle. She began to dole out portions, passing crystal glasses filled with sticky pink liquid around the crowd of chatting guests. Everyone’s movements seemed to loosen as they sipped. Except Mr. Croaksworth, Beatrice noticed as she shifted her gaze. He wore a serious expression as he accepted a punch glass from Louisa and drained it in one gulp. He looked ill at ease, eyes darting around the room, posture much more rigid than when he’d first arrived.

But tonight, as we are already very off schedule due to a soup incident caused by Beatrice Steele”—she glared at Beatrice—“I thought we might jump ahead to learning a dance that is all the rage in Italy.”

Or the canceled champagne. Perhaps I should cut down on the sherry,” he added, giving a weak laugh. “Port,” Beatrice said, correcting him, and both men in the room turned to look at her. “The glasses at the card game had dregs of port, not sherry,” she said. “That must be it,” Mr. Ashbrook said, nodding at her. “I never drink port normally. I suppose tonight I was caught up in the revelry.”

You poor dears, you must be exhausted. Come here and I shall give you some scones; I always keep them in my reticule in case I see someone in need.

Beatrice sat across from Caroline Wynn, a scone in her hand and a scowl across her face. Of course Caroline thought of nothing but their comfort, when she was the one being questioned; she acted as if she were hosting afternoon tea instead of being interviewed in the course of a murder investigation.

“How are you? Do you need any water, anything to eat? Some sherry for your nerves?” Beatrice asked quietly as Drake began to question Mr. and Mrs. Steele.

Her voice caught, and Mr. Steele withdrew a small silver flask from his jacket pocket and offered it to her. “Lemonade, my dear?” he asked gently.

“I wouldn’t say no to a stiff pour of whiskey,” she said, “but unfortunately I do not think Mrs. Ashbrook kept any in here.” Drake’s lips twitched. He reached into his pants pocket and withdrew a small flask. “Unlike your father, I keep actual liquor in mine,” he said, handing it to Beatrice. She took it and looked down at it. She had never actually drunk from a flask, and certainly not from a man’s flask. It felt intimate to imagine his mouth brushing against it.

“If there is belladonna here, it should be with tomatoes and potatoes. And aubergine, if Arabella grows any,” Beatrice said as they wove through the green maze. “All members of the nightshade family.”[*] Beatrice stopped at a cluster of tomatoes and examined the surrounding plants. “Ah. No belladonna.”

THE ASHBROOK AUTUMNAL BALL SUPPER MENU To be presented at one a.m. Cold pheasant Boiled turnips Raw pig tongues Pigeons Pig testicles Fricandeau Veal udder And for dessert Lemon and raspberry ice

Beatrice watched as the crumpled note fluttered onto the table, landing in a gravy boat.

“No,” Caroline said weakly. “Take me to the kitchen. I must put together a batch of scones; we shall need them in the morning for strength.”

“I had just started on a seed cake when I heard a thunk.

After a simple ceremony, they returned to Marsh House for the wedding breakfast. Mrs. Steele and Beatrice had prepared hot rolls, ham and eggs, drinking chocolate, and an enormous wedding cake, which Mr. Steele had already sampled and found to be excellent. There was one thing Mr. Steele took very seriously, and that was his pudding.

Caroline had politely sent her regrets along with a lovely basket of moist scones.

Baking * A lady’s scones are never dry.