Death in a Treehouse: A 1920s Murder Mystery by CM Rawlins

Author:CM Rawlins [Rawlins, CM]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: CleanTales Publishing
Published: 2025-12-26T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

Kat came in to the bedroom before Maeve knew it. She came every morning at 6am, pot of tea on a tray and a small glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, something Maeve had barely ever tasted before her elevation to the aristocracy.

Maeve assumed that the rest of the night had gone in a flash and now was the start of a new day.

“Gosh, Kat, morning already?”

Strangely, Kat just grunted, when usually she was quite the chatter bird. After placing the tray on the table that overhung the bed, she left without opening the curtains. Maeve thought about that a moment and then dismissed it from her thoughts. In the winter months, she sometimes left the curtains closed to keep out the filthy weather a moment or two longer. She’d be back in a moment to help dress her, so would open the curtains at that point.

Except Kat didn’t come back. Maeve poured a third cup from the pot, emptying it completely. Later cups never had quite the power of that first hot sip, but she was now ready to start the day. Surely Kat would be back any moment now?

The door to her bedroom remained closed. Maeve sat in bed and waited. Then, quite suddenly, she got up, knocking the milk jug onto the floor and then stepping in the spilt milk.

“Blow,” she said out loud. Feeling out of sorts, she made her way to the bathroom and ran her own bath, just like she had done every morning in her life before countess status had descended on her.

Hell’s bells, if she’d managed it for the first twenty-three years of her life—well, twenty at least, assuming she had had parental assistance for the first few years—well, she could do it now.

She descended the stairs twenty minutes later, wondering why Kat had neglected to lay out her clothes for her. Also, why the house was so dark and quiet. She was often the first one up and about, but usually there was a buzz of servants setting up the first meal of the day. Plus the delicious smell penetrating from the breakfast room hinted at the delights to follow.

The breakfast room, usually warm, light and busy, struck her immediately as cold, dark and deserted. She opened the shutter on the east-facing room and saw not the slightest trace of sunrise in the bleak, cloudless sky.

Something was wrong, very wrong.

She returned to the hall and looked at the grandfather clock. It was twenty-five minutes past five o’clock. To be sure that the clock had not been left to wind down and stop, she watched the slow, almost imperceptible move of the minute hand until there was no doubt that it had moved on, almost to half past the hour.

She had been woken before 5am on one of the coldest nights of the year. And that was after being disturbed in the night by the anguished screams of poor Agnes.

Something very odd was going on. Could Kat have become disoriented by the disturbed night, sending her internal clock into chaos? She would go to the kitchen to find out.

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