A Most Agreeable Murder (Beatrice Steele, #1)

by Julia Seales

She did not want something bad to occur. Boredom was preferable to distress. Wasn’t it?

“It’s very tragic,” Louisa said. “They had just moved to a new mansion in Bath with fifty-nine bedrooms. Unfortunately, the two of them got lost on their way to breakfast. Their servants didn’t find them until it was too late—they had wasted away.” “How awful,” Beatrice said, leaning forward. “Do the inspectors suspect foul play?” “No birds were involved. The Croaksworths were simply terrible with directions,” Louisa replied.

You must marry, or you will essentially kill me. Is that what you want? To starve your own mother? To watch my body decay out on the street, until I’m just a pile of bones for wild dogs to pick at?” Mary perked up.

“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.”

“When battles of wits are scarce, sometimes one’s best opponent is oneself,” Beatrice said with a pained smile.

She loved the woman but also saw her as an example of what she might be if she could not let her darker habits go: all alone, knitting shawls for cats, prone to fanciful fits of imagination.

“I hope they’ll be properly tuned. I adore music, but my ear is so sensitive to pitch,” Caroline told Beatrice. “Even one note off-key causes me great distress.” “You suffer so much,” Beatrice said dryly. “Life must be a constant trial.” “It is,” Caroline replied, “but friends like you help me soldier on.”

“I had a touch of the fainties.” “The fainties?” Frank repeated, confused. “A terrible illness,” Mr. Ashbrook explained mournfully. “You always feel as if you’re going to faint.” “And do you faint?” Beatrice asked. “No. But it’s awful to think that one might.”

He was most unhappy, as he had some sort of obligation at the church with his lady friend (he kept muttering about “being in the middle of saying our vows”),

“Yes, Mr. Croaksworth dislikes anything dull,” Drake said. “Which must make his opinion of himself sadly low.”

“He’s not one of your pet birds, Miss Bolton,” Arabella snapped. “We can’t just bury him. Especially not in our yard—my garden is very carefully cultivated! A grave would completely throw off the balance.”

“That would constitute great danger,” Mr. Steele said, his teeth still bloody red, “and I have expressly promised my wife to avoid great danger when possible.”

“I am too young to die!” Frank cried out. “I have only just begun to sow my wild oats!”

“Gentlemen never cheat,” Frank replied. “Their words are honest—in the moment.”

“A job?” Frank said. “How dare you!”

“Let go of what everyone is supposed to be, and you shall see who they truly are. Let people be who they truly are, and they shall reach their greatest potential.”

“You could have taken a job,” Beatrice said, staring at him in horror. Daniel stopped stoking the fire. “How dare you! I would never stoop so low. The mere suggestion is disgusting!” He began to stoke the fire once more. “I did the gentlemanly thing. I led everyone to believe that I was still single, in the hopes of securing a wealthy wife.”

“A single man in possession of a good fortune sometimes is actually not single. He’s often a total liar.”

A good stitch would have saved in a fix, but a true friend of Beatrice’s would have known: Beatrice could not sew to save a life. Only to end one.

She had combined this interest with her theatrical skills, penning a play titled To Be or Not to Be? If You Are, You Might Be Entitled to Compensation.