☆ ᴡᴀᴛᴛʏꜱ 2024 SHORTLISTER!! ☆
A tragic misunderstanding. A murder. A secret. An unlikely partnership. A spirited countess and an enterprising racketeer.
~~~
Manchester, England. May 1925.
The Roarin' 20s. An era of glamor, decadent parties, jazz mus...
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The following day, Rose arrived at Warwick Hall. She was uncertain what she had expected, but the beautifully classic façade of red brick, picture windows, and pointed turrets caused her breath to catch. Though no Thornewood Park, the Mercer residence was quite spectacular in its own right, boasting a more modern, streamlined appearance, while still managing to exude an atmosphere of old money prestige.
The mid-May afternoon was pleasant and warm as Rose glided up the wide front walk and rang the bell at the massive wooden door. As the seconds passed, a repugnant odor wafted past her nose on the breeze, but she waved a hand to dispel it and continued to wait.
It was bad manners to visit the private residence of a stranger without an invitation, but her curiosity over Dmitri trumped her etiquette, and here she was. Her mother would be aghast by her lack of decorum, which made Rose all the more eager to stay.
The front door opened and a thin, middle-aged woman with dark hair greeted her. “Yes?”
“Good afternoon, madam,” Rose said. She took in the woman's pristinely pressed black dress and gave her a smile. “Are you the lady of the house?”
The woman let out a polite laugh. “‘Madam’?” she repeated. “My goodness! You're much too kind. No, no ‘lady’ of anything, I fear. I'm the housekeeper. Eleanor. Can I help you, Miss..?”
“Rose Sinclair,” Rose supplied. “I'm so sorry for the unannounced disturbance, Eleanor, but a friend of mine gained employment here a couple weeks ago, and he promised to tell me how he was getting on. However, I haven't heard from him. Not a word. I was hoping to...have a chat with him, I suppose.”
Rose knew the whole ordeal must sound quite silly to a third party, and she offered the housekeeper a sheepish smile.
“I see,” Eleanor said. “And his name?”
“Dmitri Kuragin,” Rose replied.
“Ah! The Russian gardener.”
“Yes,” Rose said, quite pleased at the instant recognition. This woman was far more astute than her parents' housekeeper at Thornewood Park. “Just so. Have you seen him?”
“Oh, I'm afraid I have little to do with the grounds staff,” Eleanor told her. “I haven't seen him since yesterday morning. But that's hardly unusual. I'd be happy to check with our employer. Why don't you come in, Miss Sinclair?”
“That's very kind. Thank you.”
Dipping her head in gratitude, Rose crossed the threshold into the expansive foyer. She noted the spacious design and vaulted ceiling with a sense of awe. Daphne's flat, welcoming as it was, couldn't hold a candle to this.
Eleanor was halfway through offering to take Rose's lightweight coat when a man's voice cut in:
