1888 the Dead & the Desperate

A. E. Wasserman

Description

In this exciting historical mystery, Langsford must face dire facts about a murder while wrestling with his heart over a lady promised to another.

London’s social season is in full glory when Scotland Yard Inspector Frederick Abberline discovers an unidentified, well-dressed corpse down by the London docks.

A widower for three years, Lord Langsford is in a dark place of his own. Although he is shocked by the murder of his gambling acquaintance, Edwin Percy, he is astounded when he realizes all clues point to him. He must solve the crime before Scotland Yard does or he, himself, will be accused. Langsford and Inspector Abberline, at odds with each other, independently race to identify the killer while the aristocrats and social elite attend dinners and balls. Even when Langsford is distracted by Grace Westfield, Percy’s wealthy and beautiful American fiancée, he must turn his attention back to his desperate quest to find the killer and avoid being arrested and hung for a crime he did not commit.

In this exciting historical mystery, Lord Langsford must face dire facts about a murder while wrestling with his heart over a lady promised to another.

 

“ … ‘Expect the unexpected’ because Wasserman, in addition to being a superb writer, is very adept at pulling surprises out of the bag.”
– Discovering Diamonds Reviews, UK

Sujets

• Policier & Thriller
• Policier
• Thriller
• justice
• Historical
• Detective
• Mystery
• Scotland Yard
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Archway Publishing
• Date de parution: 04 septembre 2019
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781480880054
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Also by A. E. Wasserman
The Langsford Series
Novels
1884 No Bounda ries
1886 Ties That Bind
Novellas
1885 Cross ings
The Notorious Black Bart 1883
1887 The Day They Turned Off The W ater
1888 The Dead & The Desperate
 
 
 
A. E. WASSERMAN
 
 
 
 

 
 
Copyright © 2019, 2023 A. E. Wasserman.
 
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
 
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
 
 
Archway Publishing
1663 Liberty Drive
Bloomington, IN 47403
www.archwaypublishing.com
844-669-3957
 
Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
 
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.
 
ISBN: 978-1-4808-8006-1 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-4808-8007-8 (hc)
ISBN: 978-1-4808-8005-4 (e)
 
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019909347
 
 
 
Archway Publishing rev. date: 2019; 2023
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Afterword
Sources
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Dedicate d to
Paul
Who has made every new chapter of my life possible
Not till we are lost … do we begin to f ind ourselves, and realize where we are.
—Henry David Thoreau
Walden, 1854
Chapter 8, The Vil lage
 

Preston Hall
1880 Lithog raph
PROLOGUE
Black. His eyes struggled to penetrate dark nothing. He was lying on a floor, but where? He managed to lift his head—struggled to glimpse something. Anything. Where was he? Where was … this?
He squinted hard as he sat up. A gray shape emerged within the black. A rectangle—not too far, but nothing he could reach out and touch. Was it a doorway? A way out? He felt the night air ever so slightly on his face. A breeze?
Uncertain he could stand, he crawled toward it, feeling his way up two gritty stone steps, then rested before he crawled up three more to a threshold. It was an open doorway. Various shadows of uncertain origins emerged, but nothing in the new-moon sky could illuminate what was in front of him. Remaining on his hands and knees, he smelled the muddy river with its soggy banks. He was near the Thames, then. Hearing the creaks and clinks of ships down at the docks, he blinked, then squinted in hope of squeezing an image from the night.
Sitting in the doorway, he leaned against the jamb, his head throbbing. He closed his eyes to rest. Suddenly wishing for … what? A smoke. That’s what. A long pipeful, that smooth draw that gently cradled him back into oblivion. Away from all pain.
He opened his eyes and blinked again. This time the street slowly revealed its black-toned self: damp cobblestones, murky fog swirling over them. He heard a ship’s bell not far off. No lights anywhere—no lanterns, no gas lamps. Inky fog floating—floating like he was. He raked his hands through his hair. That’s when he became aware of his wet fingers. Sticky. He tried to peer at them, holding his hands right in front of his face, to no avail.
A small far-off light caught his attention. Moving in short arcs as though held in someone’s hand. Was he walking this way?
He knew he couldn’t linger here in the doorway. He didn’t know why. Didn’t think to ponder. He simply knew he had to leave. Not be found here. He needed to go … leave. Pretend he had never been there at all. Not here. Not here by the docks. Nor on this street.
Not. Here.
Pulling himself up with both hands on the jamb, he managed to stand erect, his legs spread. Swaying above his planted feet, he found balance, then turned from the river, away from the approaching lantern and its carrier. In an attempt to hurry, he tripped over his own feet and staggered up the street, falling several times. He turned left onto the first twitten he found and leaned against a barrel to catch his breath.
Must. Leave. Go.
His dull brain, driven by instinct, pushed his feet forward. By now, he’d sorted out where to go. Home. Home and safety.
He smeared his bloody hands onto his already bloody clothing and moved unsteadily on, disappearing into the darkness.
He was never there.
Chapter 1
Langsford blinked when the bright sun burst from behind a fluffy cloud. He sat still in the saddle while his horse munched the lush grass, feeling lazy, content to be in the country. The spring day draped its warmth across the English countryside, along with reborn colors and perfumes.
He felt as close as possible to peace there at Preston Hall, even though he had not particularly cared for the place during his youth and had avoided it as much as possible until recently.
The pressure of London’s social Season—all the balls and dinners—had proven too much, and he’d escaped, happily this time, to his country estate. The family estate, actually. His father’s, and grandfather’s, and his father and the father before him. Nearly five centuries. The estate was now his responsibility, which he had shouldered upon the unexpected death of his father seven years earlier. He’d always felt he’d been yoked with a burden, not only to oversee and maintain the wealthy estate but to have an heir. It was his duty.
He’d been a widower for nearly three years. He was handsome, a full six feet, trim with a short cropped beard and stylish moustache. Now twenty-five, he knew he should be remarried. The gossips in London were all atwitter that he was still available. He needed to get on with his life, marry a lady who would be a hostess in his grand London home. He needed a wife who would provide him with a male heir.
The horse shifted its weight as it stepped forward to chomp a better stand of grass, cropped green blades stuck on the snaffle bit sticking from the corners of its mouth. Langsford let the horse select its next edible location, reins loose in his fingers his hands resting on the pommel of the saddle.
He liked this horse—his father’s aged hunter. Those two had galloped after the hounds for quite a few years, his father an avid horseman. But Langsford did not share his patriarch’s enthusiasm for either time in the saddle or hunting fox and deer. His type of sport was more in the realm of chess, poker, and other games of chance. Games of the mind.
Until now, London had always been his favorite place to live, not the estate. His late wife, Regina, had been their glorious hostess; their home ablaze with stylish, proper people. He’d married her expecting that. The fact that she came with her own dowry of great wealth truly never played into it, for he had plenty of his own. Her status, however, in the eyes of London, did. Everyone had approved. She was beautiful and well-bred. He knew he wanted her to be the mother of his children—to give him a son to carry on the family name.
Langsford had been doing his duty as his title required, married to a wonderful and beautiful wife. He’d even managed to get her with child. Everyone was thrilled with this “perfect” couple who had their wonderful future ahead of them.
Then Regina died in childbirth, along with his stillborn son.
The horse suddenly jerked its head up and shied at something unseen, causing Langsford to lift the reins and steady his mount between his booted legs to prevent it from bolting off. Holding the reins in his right hand, he stroked the animal’s neck with his left. “Whoa, boy. Steady.” The horse stood like a statue, head up, ears pricked toward the wood just off to the right. Probably a bounding deer, the Englishman thought. After a minute, the horse exhaled a sigh and buried its nose back into the grass.
Hidden demons, Langsford thought. The horse has his, and I, mine. Demons. They dart at my soul. It was because of them that Regina was gone—he was convinced; God punishing him for hi