The Secret of Hollyfield House by Jude Bayton (first ebook reader TXT) 📕

Table of Contents

The Secret of Hollyfield House

Publication Information

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Praise for Jude Bayton

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

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Epilogue

About the Author

The Secret of Mowbray Manor

The Secret of Hollyfield House

by

Jude Bayton

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

The Secret of Hollyfield House

COPYRIGHT © 2021 Deborah Bayton-FitzSimons

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: [email protected]

Cover Art by Diana Carlile

Print ISBN 978-1-955441-00-1

Digital ISBN 978-1-955441-01-8

Published by redbus llc

Dedication

To my wonderful daughters-in-law, Emily Wessels Bayton, Natalie Curran Bayton, and Jessica Sutherland FitzSimons. Without you, there would be way too much testosterone in this family.

Acknowledgements

Alicia “Ally” Dean—a fabulous writer, an amazing editor and the dearest of friends.

A huge thank you to my Brit ladies—Lynne Bayton Imeson, Danii Imeson & Sheila Dawn Smith—your help was invaluable, and to my American ladies—MJ Hawe, Nestora Germann, and Susan Brown, who kindly read the first version of this book many iterations ago.

Praise for

Jude Bayton

“THE SECRET OF MOWBRAY MANOR is an elegant historic suspense that does a beautiful job reminding us that when you scratch the surface of dignified family, you don’t have to scratch hard to find blood. Jude’s bold and crisply defined characters felt tangible. I loved getting swept up in the stunning settings, and the mystery and angst locked me in. I couldn’t put it down. The juxtaposition of dark vs. light and good vs. evil gets cleverly flipped on its head. I went from trying to solve the mystery to just hoping that the noble heroine Kathryn isn’t killed before she can uncover the secret and find out what really happened to her friend.”

~Amy Brewer, Literary Agent

Chapter One

Wednesday, May 6, 1885

IT WAS A DAY MEANT FOR walking and picking wildflowers. Discovering a dead man lying in the shallows of Lake Windermere had not been part of my plans. At first, I thought a sheep, or large farm animal must have become entangled in the thick green rushes. But as I neared the water, to my absolute horror, I registered human eyes staring vacantly up at the heavens. Foamy spittle oozed from his gaping mouth and there was the appalling buzz of flies in a feeding frenzy atop the bloody wound on his chest.

What little I had consumed for breakfast rumbled in my roiling stomach, and I turned away to be violently ill. My breath came in ragged gasps, and my heart pounded. I looked around frantically, desperate to see another living soul to call to my aid. But I was out of luck. There was no one else about. I did not wait another moment. I took off at a run to get the village constable.

TWO HOURS SPENT AT the police station, and I still could not accept my gruesome discovery. A body. Dear God, I had seen the body of a dead man. I baulked at the recollection and knew the vision of that poor creature would be forever imprinted on my mind. My hands still shook, though the constable had already brought me two cups of sweet tea laced with brandy.

How I wished Uncle Jasper were here. Though a messenger was dispatched to our house to fetch him thirty minutes since, I had warned them not to waste their time. My uncle would still be foraging out on the hills, while here I sat with my head consumed with images of the dead man, the blood, the flies. My stomach churned once again, and I forced the scene from my thoughts. Who was the poor fellow? The constable had not yet identified him, and I certainly could not, for I had only lived in Ambleside the better part of a month, and hardly knew a soul.

“Miss Farraday.” Constable Bloom was back, his face pink with exertion from climbing the steep staircase of the police station. “It seems your uncle, Professor Alexander is nowhere to be found. Is there someone else who can collect you?”

I shook my head. “No, there is not.” Mrs Stackpoole, our housekeeper, was visiting a friend for the afternoon. I sat up straighter. “Constable Bloom. I believe myself recovered enough to go home.”

But he wasn’t having it. “Now then, miss. Let’s not hurry. You’ve had a nasty shock an’ I wouldn’t want you to go off in a faint or anythin’—”

“Thank you,” I interrupted. “But I assure you I am well enough. I feel I would be better off at home—if you please.”

The policeman reluctantly nodded.

OUTSIDE THE CONSTABULARY, THE fresh air was a welcome balm to my rattled senses, and I filled my lungs. The sun burned bright in the May sky, and I tilted up my face to capture its warmth. After a moment, though, I began to feel rather odd. Most likely the culprit being the brandy in my tea, drunk on an empty stomach. My head spun, my vision blurred, and I teetered off the pavement and stepped directly into the street.

A carriage flew past my face, the wheel rims so close to my body that I instinctively lurched backwards, losing my balance. I tumbled to the ground, landing on my back with enough force to knock the wind from me. For a moment I lay stunned, until a stranger hurried to my assistance and gently helped me back to my feet.

“Are you hurt, miss?” The kindly man asked, keeping a tight grip of me.

I was unable to speak. Nothing felt broken, but my back and head had taken a blow. Strangely enough, the dizzy spell had abated, though my head now throbbed like the dickens.

The carriage came to a