Exclusive Excerpt from "Bespoke"

            Miss Lucy Greenwood was tidily put together, with an unpainted face and a covered bosom. She couldn't be much more than twenty-five. Her dress was not overwrought with fluffs and folderols, as he'd been led to imagine, but stylish in an understated way. If not for the bright color of her gown, she might have been a curate's wary, sharp-tongued daughter introduced to him over a cream tea and sandwiches bereft of their crust. One who would much rather be anywhere else and had decided that instead of succumb to the inevitable boredom of his company, she would make entertainment for herself by laughing at him.

            But that luxurious, deep, pinkish red was not suited for tea with the curate. It had a certain... arousing quality for one's appetite, which, he supposed, was useful for the proprietress of a cake shop. He might not possess much of a sweet tooth himself, but he would never again be able to look at a raspberry mousse with quite the same nonchalance.

  

          "I'm very fond of mysteries and detective stories," she said brightly. "Perhaps I might help you with the case. Because I'm very good at clues. I read a lot of Arthur Conan Doyle."

            He sighed deeply. "Of course you do."

            "Have you read his work, detective inspector?"

            "I have little time for novels."

            "What a pity." She walked by him to reach for her apron, which hung upon a hook beside the door. A drift of light rose and almond oil followed her movement, but whether it came from her or the baking he could not tell. The kitchen was full of fragrance, all of it stirring a hunger within.

            Must not be distracted.

            Her hands, he noted, were pale against the vivid color of her gown, but they were not frail or delicate. Her nails were short and scrubbed clean, a few marks across her knuckles proof of working with a hot stove.

   

         "I generally solve the mystery before Sherlock Holmes gets around to it," she said. "I suppose, it may sound smug to say it, but it's actually quite a tiresome habit, when one merely wants to enjoy a play or a good book without immediately knowing who perpetrated the crime. So you see, I could be useful."

            "How could you possibly solve a Sherlock Holmes mystery when all the most important facts are withheld from the reader until the very end?"

            "Aha! So you have read the books!"

            Begrudgingly, he admitted, "I skimmed one. Once. Purely by accident." He sniffed. "When it was left forgotten on the seat beside me on the train. Somebody found it too tiresome to finish, I daresay. For want of anything else to read, I picked it up. "

            Her lips tightened, and her eyes sparked. A small dimple appeared in one cheek.

            With a scowl he added, "I'll let you know if I feel overwhelmed with clues, Miss Greenwood."

            "I'd be delighted to consult. I'd even bring cake— just as soon as you've determined it's not poisoned, of course."

            He shot her another wary look, but she smiled as she slipped the white apron over her frock and tied the ribbons behind her back. "You say you saw her ladyship yesterday, madam, when you delivered the cake to Welford Hall?"

            She began to unbutton her cuffs. "Yes. She stood in an upstairs window, looking out." Briskly she rolled up her sleeves, baring her forearms so suddenly that he lost the path of his thoughts for a moment. She paused, hands on her waist. "Should you not be taking notes?"

            He squinted. "Should I?"

            "I thought that was what detectives did."

            "I don't like to miss anything." He looked at her arms. It was often what people did as much as what they said to him that told a story, so he kept his gaze lifted rather than lowered to a notebook. "I'll write it down later. If it's all the same to you and Mr. Holmes."

            "What if you don't remember later?"

            "I never forget."

            "Like an elephant?"

            "Like a reasonably attentive man with a good memory."

            She looked thoughtful, head tilted, eyes sparkling with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. "I daresay you've heard a great deal of gossip about me. Rumors flourish around here with the wiry and stubborn strength of weeds. And although, being a man, you would claim never to pay heed to gossip, as a detective I suppose you must. Therefore, you have formed an opinion of me already."

            "As a lady who determined to set up her shop here, on a street full of businesses catering to gentlemen, I'm sure you knew the likelihood of trouble, gossip and speculation, before you took the lease."

            "I'm not a troublemaker," she replied archly. "I simply thought Charles Place required enlivening with the presence of a lady."

            As if butter would never melt in her mouth. "But you concede that your presence here ruffles feathers?" he pushed.

            "They ruffle their own feathers. I do nothing except live my life as it pleases me." Her eyes darkened with a sultry shade which, while it should have cooled the temperature of her gaze, only increased its heat. "Wait until I purchase a bicycle. That will give them something to cluck about."

            Butter would not only melt, he mused, it would sizzle.

            "You've raised a few eyebrows— and hackles— with your business venture. Perhaps you've made a few enemies. You were described to me as a difficult woman. Truculent and opinionated, I believe, were other words used."

            "Opinionated?" She chuckled dourly. "Don't you find that folk really only like opinions that agree with their own? Otherwise they are utterly in the wrong and not to be heard?"

            "Perhaps."

            "I would rather be a difficult woman with something going on between my ears, Detective Inspector, than an empty automaton, universally inoffensive, easily overlooked and entirely forgettable. I may be a challenge to know at times, sir, but I hope I am worth it." Then she paused. For a moment she looked vexed, but she shook it off. "I'm sorry. But I am heartily tired of being told what I should do, what I should want to be, and how, as a woman, I should seek to please, no matter what pleases me. As I said, I'm not interested in conforming to a mould. If all that upsets certain people, then I apologize, but I do not intend to change. So, as my cousin would point out, that makes me not truly repentant and therefore a hopeless case. Truculence and all, take me or leave me, I'm sure I'll survive either way."

            He squinted, left a little breathless. It was as if, while he walked along the beach, the tide came in unexpectedly, caught him round the knees and then tried to suck him down and under. He felt the splash of salt water in his face. For just a brief flickering moment he was a boy again, watching sunlight catch upon the white sail of a toy boat as it bobbed teasingly out of reach, carried on a strong wave.  Such a bold little thing, that boat— the sail waving back and forth but staying upright as it stubbornly rode the wild sea, racing free.

            That toy boat, a gift from his father when he came home on leave, had been the beginning of a lifetime love affair with the sea and sailing. Not that he'd had much chance in recent years to indulge the hobby.

            "I simply create cakes, Mr. Deverell," she said. "Cakes are for pleasure, not political statement. If I wanted to lecture from a podium then I would go into a different line of business, but this is what I chose. Cakes: unique, many-layered, extravagant, magical creations, to awaken, expand and delight the appetite. I intend my bespoke creations to be remembered and sought after for another taste, not forgotten as soon as they are eaten. That is all I want out of life. That hardly makes me a revolutionary, knitting by the guillotine and waiting for heads to roll." Still she tried to convince him of her innocence, while her eyes betrayed the attempt.

            "More Marie Antoinette than Madame Defarge then?"

            "Your countenance suggests you find something amusing about that, sir."

            "'Tis merely the unfortunate, unprepossessing placement of my features that gives this impression. I beg you, pay no attention to my face. Even I don't know what it does most of the time. Probably for the best."

            When she turned away with a stout "huff" and reached for one of those jars on the dresser, his gaze took a fumbling path downward, following the long row of tiny, fabric-covered buttons that caressed the length and dip of her spine, before running away beneath the bow of her apron.

            The opinionated Miss Lucy Greenwood and her rustling, raspberry gown were certainly intriguing. As tempting as her bespoke cakes. Perhaps that was what really worried her Charles Place neighbors, particularly the men. They must not know where to look for their own good.

            "How did her ladyship come to learn of your services then, I wonder? Was it by coincidence that she came upon you that first day you were open? I am told she was not generally a lady who left things to chance or acted spontaneously. Indeed, the purchase of your cake was considered so unusual that it rather upset the household that day."

            "I daresay she found one of our cards somehow. Mary and I spent several weeks distributing them in the area."

            "You left one at Welford Hall?"

            "No." Then, as if she realized she'd answered too sharply, her eyes went to black— a thick blind drawn over their brilliant light. She shook her head and added, "I do not recall that I did leave a card there. I think not."

            "Surely you would remember Welford Hall in particular." It was not a house easy to forget with all those ugly, gargoyle-rimmed turrets and the grandiose, confused mixture of historical styles.

            "I do not recall going there to leave a card," she repeated. "Do you, Mary?"

            The nervous assistant shook her head and stared at the flagstone floor.

            "Why would you not leave a card at the hall, if you went to so many places? You would not miss out on the opportunity of such a wealthy customer, I think, unless...unless you had some reason not to go there." He smiled briefly, with a serviceable politeness.

            "I really cannot remember, sir." Her returning smile failed to conceal a flutter of impatience. "I must say—" She took a wooden spatula out of the drawer and pointed one end at him. "I had the distinct impression yesterday that there was something not quite right at Welford Hall. I dismissed it as being an affect of the terrible heat, which was so unusual for the time of year. Everybody was rather short-tempered and the air was dreadfully thick. Suffocating. As if time stood still. Yes—" She waggled her spatula at him. "That was the impression I got at Welford Hall yesterday, Detective Inspector. Time standing still and nothing moving ahead as it should. Nothing being real. I can't say why I felt that, but I did." Like a steam engine rumbling down a steep hill, she picked up speed. "You will be looking for any enemies the lady might have had, of course. Or debtors and creditors. Or lovers. Most murders are committed for love or money, are they not? You say you spoke to her solicitor this morning, presumably about the terms of her will?"

            He frowned. "I am not at liberty to share details of the investigation with you, Miss Greenwood. I'm sure you understand."

            "But I'm very good at puzzles and reading people and I'm not at all squeamish."

            "I'll bear it in mind."

            "You don't believe a woman can be useful in that way?"

            "Real life is not quite like the books you read, Miss Greenwood, that is all. Enjoy them, by all means, but don't imagine those stories bare any resemblance to the way we do our work. Or the challenges we face."

            "Then what, exactly, does a real Detective Inspector do?" she asked, slapping the spatula against her palm. "Do tell. I've never met one before. A real one." Smack! "In the flesh."

            "I wouldn't want to worry you about what I do. As long as you stay out of trouble, Miss Greenwood, you don't need to know." He couldn't resist adding, "It's hardly fit for your maidenly ears."

            "Now you're deliberately trying to intrigue me. Or annoy me." Her eyes narrowed, the dark lashes hovering slyly. "Perhaps both."

            He allowed a semi-smirk before making his face somber as the grave again. "Mr. Doyle's tales are far more romantic and colorful. More drama, shooting and chasing about in the fog; fewer scenes of slow, one-fingered typing, endless filing and the excessive scraping of filth off one's boots. That sort of thing. But I suppose real life wouldn't make such an exciting story to grasp the distracted attention of young ladies in need of vicarious thrills."

            "We're lucky to have you here then," she remarked with an arch smile. "A man to put us all to rights and show us how it's really done."

            "All I meant to say is that I'm no Sherlock Holmes."

            "I know that because you're not wearing a deerstalker hat. According to illustrations in The Strand, Mr. Holmes is seldom without one."

            "It's a minimum requirement for the post."

            "Then where is yours?"

            "I save mine for special occasions."

            When those glittering, caramel eyes melted another few degrees in amusement, he realized that she must have watched him reach for his hat three times and yet he had not yet taken it up. Even now he withdrew his fingers from the chair seat again, hesitating.

            "When Lady Isolda came here on Wednesday, did she walk with the aid of a cane?"

            She frowned, twirling her spatula around with the long, lithe fingers of one hand. "I believe so, although she did not rely upon it heavily. I thought it more decorative than practical. Of course, had I known the poor lady's destiny, I would have paid far greater attention. But I can tell you that she wore a tweed brown coat with a velvet collar and a silver brooch on the lapel— fashioned to look like a spray of wheat. A hat with a little grey veil. Gloves, naturally. Lilac kid. Smartly dressed, but not quite as grand as one might expect. Of course, it was a rainy day and I daresay she was not wearing her best just to go shopping."

            All that from paying only a little attention?  He hid another smile. "And did you see a walking cane when you witnessed the lady standing at her window yesterday?"

            "No, I did not. She appeared to be leaning against the window frame to look down at something on the ground outside, however, and I could not see her hands." She paused. "I do hope that is helpful."

            "Very."

            "Like you, I'm excellent at remembering details, you see, spotting clues and such. I could be a great help with your investigation."

            He ran a thumb along his eyebrow. "Some details you remember, it seems. But not whether you left a card at Welford Hall or what reason you might have not to do so."

            That wiped the little smile from her face.

            Dangerous? Probably. Trouble? Undoubtedly. Keeping secrets? Of course, and he knew at least one of them.

* * * * *

Want to read more? BESPOKE is available now for pre-order from Amazon in your country, as well as other online book stores, and will be released officially this Wednesday the 20th of February. Hope you enjoy the adventures of Lucy and her Detective Inspector. I'm very fond of them both already and looking forward to their next mystery.

(Images: Strawberries and Cream by John F. Francis 1808 - 1886; Muja Ventana by Carl Holsoe c. 1900, and Still Life with Cake by Raphaelle Peale 1818)