Cold-Blooded Myrtle (Myrtle Hardcastle Mystery 3)


By Elizabeth C. Bunce

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An Edgar® Award Winning Series

Myrtle Hardcastle—twelve-year-old Young Lady of Quality and Victorian amateur detective—is back on the case, solving a string of bizarre murders in her hometown of Swinburne and picking up right where she left off in Premeditated Myrtle and How to Get Away with Myrtle.

When the proprietor of Leighton’s Mercantile is found dead on the morning his annual Christmas shop display is to be unveiled, it’s clear a killer had revenge in mind. But who would want to kill the local dry-goods merchant? Perhaps someone who remembers the mysterious scandal that destroyed his career as a professor and archaeologist. When the killer strikes again, each time manipulating the figures in the display to foretell the crime, Myrtle finds herself racing to uncover the long-buried facts of a cold case—and the motivations of a modern murderer. 



The Metropolitan Holiday

As we approach the New Century, our age-old traditions and celebrations join us in this modern world. —H. M. Hardcastle, A Modern Yuletide: An Historical & Scientific Discourse on the Christmas Holiday & Its Most Venerable Traditions, 1893

"Don't blame me if you're disappointed. You've been warned." Miss Judson, my governess, dipped a gloved hand into her jacket pocket and withdrew her watch, frowning slightly. "Your father was nearly inconsolable when he heard."

"I just want to read it for myself," I said stoutly. I'd been waiting for the December issue of the Strand Magazine to come out, for I had yet to read the newest Sherlock Holmes story, "The Adventure of the Final Problem." It had been released in America the prior month, which I thought patently unfair, since Holmes was, above all, an English sleuth.

Moments later, a foggy-breathed Caroline Munjal joined us outside Leighton's Mercantile. "Is it here yet?" she asked, shaking snow from her black hair.

We were not the only people awaiting the opening of the shop. A whole crowd had gathered this Saturday morning for the grand unveiling of Leighton's annual Christmas window display. Caroline had been alight with eager speculation for days now over what Mr. Leighton might have chosen to depict.

"Maybe it will be the Redgraves Murder!"

As if on cue, another figure flitted toward us, balancing a stack of magazines—our neighbor, heiress Priscilla Wodehouse. "The latest issue of Tales from the Red Graves," she announced. Capitalizing on her home's recent history, she'd opened a small publishing enterprise named for the notorious residence. "Hot off the press and ready to stock Mr. Leighton's newsstand."

"Is there a Mabel Castleton story?" Caroline wanted to know. The new penny dreadful tales were gaining popularity—at least among a small crowd of devoted followers. Priscilla held out high hopes of their worldwide success. I had mixed feelings on the subject.

Priscilla's eyes twinkled. "You'll just have to wait and see."

"I see Dr. Doyle has a rival," Miss Judson Observed.

"We'll read them both." Caroline was nothing if not loyal.

I stood on tiptoe, trying to look past the assembled company. Would there be a miniature Redgraves manor, site of my own first triumph as an Investigator?

"Don't get your hopes up," Miss Judson advised. "It has been a busy year for the village."

"Indeed it has." Here came Mrs. Munjal, arms laden with parcels. She wore a sprig of holly pinned to her collar, and the mingled scents of pine and peppermint came with her. "There was the flower show, Lancelot and Elaine's cygnets"—referring to the ill-tempered swans at the park—"and of course we have a Mayor now."

"Don't remind us," Caroline grumbled—but it was too late. The crowd parted, somewhat reluctantly, and a grandly dressed pair of females paraded through like peahens, nearly identical in matching velvet and fur and towering, beribboned hats.

"Good morning, Mrs. Spence-Hastings, LaRue." Miss Judson's voice was as frosty as the morning as she greeted our former neighbors.

"You may address me as Mrs. Mayoress," LaRue's mother said. Inaccurately, not that anyone bothered to correct her.

"And me as Miss Spence-Hastings," put in LaRue, her mother's perfect miniature, down to the arrogant angle of their heads as they gazed down their noses at the common folk.

I managed to avoid rolling my eyes, but Caroline was not as successful. LaRue had been putting on airs even more than usual since her father's appointment to the new office of Mayor. It was all part of Swinburne's ongoing Modernization, efforts to secure its status as one of the most progressive villages in England.

"It's sure to be the Mansion House," LaRue declared. "We've entirely refurbished it, you know. Father's found the biggest tree in the county for the Mayor's Christmas Ball."

I ignored the Spence-Hastingses and turned my attention to the rest of the crowd. Despite the cold, throngs had turned out for the big reveal. A Salvation Army band played an enthusiastic medley of "We Three Kings" and "God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen," and Mrs. Munjal wrestled an arm free to drop a shilling into their red bucket.

The shop itself was quiet, its gas off and a green baize curtain closed over the window inscribed, Leighton's Mercantile Emporium: Fine Goods & Wonders from Across the Empire. The deep glass windows were usually crammed full of every manner of necessity and luxury, from reels of lace to rows of books to crocks of marmalade and mincemeat.* They'd recently showcased an Underwood typewriter, and inside I was hoping to find a new leather brief-bag for Father's Christmas gift. I still had not decided what to get Miss Judson. Despite being my closest companion in the world, she was notoriously difficult to shop for. Her reception of the pocket toxicology analysis set I'd produced for her last year (for testing her food against poison) had been somewhat . . . lackluster.

This being the first Saturday in December, the ordinary goods had been cleared out of the windows to make room for Christmas. One window held the tree, sparkling with silver and red ornaments, paper chains, sweets, and candles, while the other featured the Display: a meticulously crafted scale model of Swinburne, dressed up for the holidays and depicting the year's most notable events in the village. Mr. Leighton worked on it year round, and the shop window had been shrouded for the last two weeks, as he set up the final touches in absolute secrecy.

As the band played and the snow fell and the Spence-Hastingses preened, the rest of us craned our necks, trying to peek round the curtain for a glimpse.

"Are you ready for your first English Christmas, Miss Wodehouse?" Mrs. Munjal's voice was merry and bright. Miss Judson and the two Munjals were all dressed in festive holiday clothes and smart hats that set off their varying shades of brown skin—tan, bronze, and olive. Priscilla was a picture in pink, with blond hair and ivory cheeks tinted with rose. Beside them all, I felt small and pasty and rumpled.

Priscilla did not have a chance to respond, for at that moment, Mrs. Leighton finally arrived, bustling through the assembled crowd with the great brass key to the shop doors in her hands.

"It's so nice to see you all!" She beamed, blue eyes crinkling beneath her frizzy red fringe. "Basil has been working so hard this year—claims it's his best Display ever, and won't let me see a peep of it! Even stayed in the shop last night to make sure everything was perfect. Had to bring him his breakfast, I did." She patted her basket. "Now, wait out here while I rouse Himself to unveil it properly. He'll want to point out all the details."

With a rattle of her key, the shop door opened, emitting a very Christmassy jingle. A moment passed, then another, then at last the green cloth parted, and—with a little tugging and hesitation as the curtains caught on the roof of a model building—a miniature Swinburne Village appeared.

There was a burst of applause. The band struck up "Pat-a-Pan," and there came gasps of appreciation as we all marveled at the perfection of the replica: the exact details of the Town Hall's broken chimney pot and wreaths of evergreen in every window, the red postbox and telephone kiosk at the High Street tram station, the flocked model horses pulling their glossy sleigh across the wool-wadding snow.

This year Mr. Leighton had not elected to reproduce Redgraves and the Gilded Slipper lilies, or the change in Swinburne's local governance. Or the swans. Instead, he had expanded the Display to include nearby Schofield College. The streets of the model village were empty, and there was a collective murmur as we realized that the tiny villagers were all clustered round the Campanile, the college's famous belltower. Amid a ring formed by the model people stood two small objects that seemed incongruous: a stone wishing well, painted entirely black, tipped on its side; and a life-size sprig of grapes—no, olives—still on the stem.

"That's not very interesting at all," the Mayoress exclaimed. "What is that supposed to be? People standing about staring at rubbish?"

"It's certainly . . . unusual," offered Miss Judson. "What do you suppose it means? Olives and a well?"

"What? Let me see!" Mrs. Munjal shoved her way forward, barreling through several small children and their mums, who howled in protest. I squeezed aside to make room, but she halted a few feet from the window, staring at the Display. "No," she breathed. "It can't be. Not again." Without further explanation, she seized Caroline by the arm and hauled her away from the shop.

"Mother!" Caroline cried—but whatever had startled Mrs. Munjal was stronger than Caroline's curiosity, and Caroline could not escape her mother's grip. She gave me a look of confused apology as Mrs. Munjal bundled her swiftly into their carriage and rode away.

"What was that about?" Priscilla said.

"I have no idea," I said. But we had no time to wonder further, for at that moment, from inside the shop erupted a bone-rattling scream.

Miss Judson and I exchanged one brief, significant Look before turning on our heels and diving for the shop door. It flew wide under Miss Judson's grasp, onto a peculiar scene. Deep in shadows, in the very back near the stove, sat Mr. Leighton, in a hard kitchen chair with a mug in his hand, looking for all the world like he'd just sat down for tea and dozed off.

Except his eyes were open, staring blindly at nothing.

Mrs. Leighton's white hands clutched her anguished face. "He's dead!"

*Cook turned up her nose at this, saying any self-respecting Englishwoman made her own.


Ghost of Christmas Past

The liturgical season of Advent is a time to prepare for the arrival of Christmas with prayers, carols, and celebrations. A less happy observation involves reflection upon the Four Last Things: Death, Judgment, Heaven, and Hell. —H. M. Hardcastle, A Modern Yuletide

Words poured from Mrs. Leighton. "I couldn't find him, he wasn't here to open the curtains, and everyone was waiting, so I went ahead, and that's when I saw—" She waved weakly toward the back rooms, trembling. "Oh, Lordy, what'll we do?"

Miss Judson swept the shopkeeper into a firm embrace. "We'll catch our breath, Mrs. Leighton, and send for the authorities. Myrtle, will you phone Dr. Belden?"

I nodded, dumbly—but I was staring at Mr. Leighton with the cold, pooling conviction that the person we really needed was Dr. Munjal, the Police Surgeon.

I summoned the police, too. They were right across the street, after all. Constable Carstairs showed up first, unfortunately, instead of Inspector Hardy of the Detective Bureau, who knows my work. I supposed that made sense; we didn't need a detective for an ordinary death. Miss Judson put me in charge of poor Mrs. Leighton so she could impose order on the crowd outside, which gave me very little time to examine the scene.

Of course, it was possible that I'd jumped the gun, so to speak, and Mr. Leighton had simply passed away while having his evening tea. But something about his posture, upright in the chair, cup in hand, made alarm bells clang in my head. A cracker barrel sat at his side, and it looked like he'd been jotting a note, perhaps to Mrs. Leighton.

"Wot's this?" Constable Carstairs peered in closer, prizing the missive from Mr. Leighton's hand. "It's gibberish. Must've been having a stroke or sommat." He waved the scrap of paper in the air, and I caught a glimpse of it.

"No, it's Greek," I said, which roused Mrs. Leighton.

"Greek?" She sniffed tearfully. "But he hasn't done that in years. Not since he retired."


"He was a professor, at the college." She flicked an absent hand toward the Display in the window.

"May I see that?" I asked politely, as if it were a perfectly normal request. "I read Greek."

"Course ye do." Constable Carstairs started to hand it to me, but I stepped back, hands knotted behind my skirts.

"No, the fewer people who touch it, the better. It may have finger-marks on it." I leaned in instead. "It's—er, it's upside down, Constable."

He rotated it, and I read the words, frown growing. "But that doesn't make any sense."

"What did he say, Myrtle? Is—is it a suicide note?" Mrs. Leighton's voice was frail.

"I don't think so." But that tugged even harder at my brain. Dr. Leighton's Greek was perfectly legible, and the grammar was fine, but it was totally nonsensical. A message with no meaning at all.

"'We owe a cockerel to Asclepius,'" I read, first in Greek, then English, more mystified each time.

"I beg yer pardon?" Constable Carstairs's voice was icy and hard.

"That's what the note says. Don't ask me. It doesn't mean anything. Mrs. Leighton?"

She shook her head, hand at her lacy throat. "Why would he write that?"

Maybe he hadn't written it. It had been clutched in his fingers, but there was no pen nearby, and the ink was dry, unsmudged. "You need to keep that for evidence," I advised the constable, who growled his thanks.

The jangle of bells heralded the return of Miss Judson, Dr. Belden in tow. I scurried across to admit them, hiding behind the door. Dr. Belden strode into the shop and examined the scene with a wise, weather eye. An older man with a reassuring stoop and gnarled hands that spoke of decades of competent medical work, he'd kept the High Street surgery for as long as anybody could remember.

All my self-confidence and assurance withered up inside me when he walked into Leighton's Mercantile. Not for any logical reason; he was as skilled and experienced a physician as there was to be found anywhere in England, I was sure. But he'd been Mum's doctor before she died, and even all these years later, I couldn't help the sinking dread I felt whenever I saw him. He still gave me that sad smile, like he wanted to give me something impossible, and it pained him that he couldn't. He didn't make me feel at all like an accomplished Investigator working a case.

I hung back, edge of my thumb in my mouth like a baby, and watched. The doctor frowned into the professor's clouded eyes, clucking his tongue like he was examining a patient who could actually use his help. I wondered if he'd give Mrs. Leighton that sad smile, too. He touched the man's cold, stiff wrist—although there was no chance of a pulse.

"Did you bring your thermometer?" My voice was a pitiful creak, but I was proud of myself for finding it.

He frowned, as if he couldn't quite place me. "Oh, Miss Hardcastle." Unlike the men from the police force, he wasn't accustomed to tripping over me in his work.

"To test the body?" I ventured. "A corpse loses about a degree per hour, depending on conditions." You could estimate the time of death based on body temperature. Dr. Munjal had taught me that. The conditions here, however, were a freezing cold shop in December, which would no doubt affect accuracy.

"I have no intention of taking this man's temperature while you're all standing about," the doctor said sternly. "Even a dead man deserves his privacy."

"Was it his heart?" Mrs. Leighton's voice wandered over to us. Miss Judson had joined her, a reassuring hand on her arm.

Dr. Belden leaned closer, peering at Mr. Leighton's face and hands. "A stroke, more likely," he said. "Poor old chap. My condolences, Mrs. Leighton. Your husband was a fine man."

I swallowed hard. Mr. Leighton had always been kind to me, happily explaining the entire natural history of every object in his shop—waterproof Wellies from Brazilian rubber, cocoa and cinnamon from Ceylon and Java—and sneaking me copies of Illustrated Police News when Miss Judson wasn't looking. I'd been eager to hear his take on the latest Sherlock Holmes number, and now I never would.

At that moment, the doorbells jangled, and Dr. Munjal, Police Surgeon and Caroline's father, stepped in, gripping his medical bag and breathing hard.

"Munjal!" Dr. Belden looked taken aback. "What are you doing here? This isn't a police matter."

"This may be a crime scene, Doctor." Miss Judson spoke up before Dr. Munjal—or I—could reply. She was more soothing than I could have managed. I was working on it, Dear Reader, although I rather feared I was turning out more like the constable, better at barking at people to get my way.

Dr. Belden's hawklike eyes narrowed, and the constable grumbled, while Dr. Munjal just stood freezing and frozen in the threshold.

"Awright," Constable Carstairs said. "Ever'one out, then. Mrs. Leighton, is there somewhere—else—we can talk?" When Mrs. Leighton indicated a room above the shop, the constable instructed Miss Judson to take her up there, and clomped up the stairs behind them. Miss Judson's glance plainly indicated that she expected me to accompany them—but I pretended not to notice.

"I'll take over now, Doctor, if you don't mind," Dr. Munjal said, with a deferential nod.

"I most certainly do mind. I'm this man's personal physician, and there's nothing here to suggest this is a criminal matter."

What about the cryptic note in his hand? Or the strange items in the Display, which had so upset Mrs. Munjal? It was safer having Dr. Munjal double-check things, just to be sure.

"I'll be the judge of that." Dr. Munjal was a small, neat man, several inches shorter than Dr. Belden, but he stood politely, still in his overcoat, until Dr. Belden stepped aside. I bit my lip and wondered if Dr. Munjal often had to deal with obstructive colleagues.

I wanted to watch Dr. Munjal examine the body, but Dr. Belden was still hovering—and besides, he'd been right. Mr. Leighton did deserve his privacy. Dr. Munjal's poking at him clinically, here in his cozy shop where he'd spent so many intimate years, felt like an intrusion.

I backed away, behind the counter, and studied the Display instead. At first it was just to stay out of the way while still listening to what was happening— but the curious tableau drew my attention now. What were the wishing well and the olives doing there among all the Christmas carolers and bell ringers? Perhaps Mr. Leighton had been meaning to set them up somewhere when he'd felt unwell, and simply dropped them before he went to sit down.

But that didn't explain Mrs. Munjal's reaction—or why Dr. Munjal had dashed right over here afterward. I hadn't called for him, and I was sure the police hadn't, either. They'd only do that for an obvious crime scene. So how had Dr. Munjal known someone here was dead?

"Hey, now—what are you doing there, man?"

Dr. Belden was understandably startled. Dr. Munjal was bent low, face close to the dead man's mouth and nose, sniffing with tremendous concentration. My interest spiked, and I hastened toward him. Was he checking for toxins? Many had distinct odors (as did several diseases, evident on the patient's breath or skin, like diabetes and kidney failure), and a doctor's nose was a significant diagnostic and Investigative tool.

Something on the floor behind the counter distracted me—another object out of place, perhaps something else that had fallen from the Display. A pale, gold-edged corner of paper peeked out from beneath the cabinets, and I had to wriggle it loose with my toe.

It was an old photograph, a cabinet card showing several young men and women dressed for an expedition, posing on a windswept hill. In the center of the group stood a younger Mr. Leighton in a Norfolk jacket and hunting tweeds. I recognized his lean weathered face and sharp curious eyes. I flipped it over, where someone had scrawled Cornwall, 1873. I turned it back, and my heart thumped, one hard cold bang right in my throat.

Next to Mr. Leighton was a young woman holding a pickaxe and smiling jauntily for the camera. Her dark eyes stared back at me, for the first time in five years.

It was my mother.


In Camera

Time-honored English tradition requires pickling a perfectly good pudding in liquor then setting it afire like a flaming cannonball as the centerpiece of Christmas dinner, no doubt as a sign of intimidation to the Empire's enemies. —H. M. Hardcastle, A Modern Yuletide

All afternoon I kept stealing glances at the photograph of Mum and Mr. Leighton, which I had collected as evidence. Very well, Dear Reader—I'd swiped it. What else could I do? One doesn't find a photograph of one's mother next to a dead man every day, after all. And the feeling in my chest, deep and painful, told me it was not something I should simply wave in the face of Constable Carstairs. Nor could I leave it behind and pretend I'd never seen it. So instead I had carefully tucked it away in my bag, feeling pinched and fluttery, while the doctors and the constable finished their work and took Mr. Leighton's body away.

I'd come home alone. Miss Judson had stayed in town to help Mrs. Leighton get settled. It had been hard walking out of the shop, leaving her looking so alone and lost, and knowing there was nothing I could do to help. Dr. Munjal had concurred with Dr. Belden's diagnosis of a stroke, and had bustled away again without stopping to talk with me and Miss Judson. There was no mystery to solve, no criminal to bring to justice. There was just the sad abrupt finality that Mr. Leighton was there one night, and gone again the next morning. I hated it.

Now Peony and I sat on the stairs, studying the picture. Cook was in the kitchen, making gingersnaps, and Father was at his morris dancing practice, so we had most of the house to ourselves. How had Mum known Mr. Leighton, and who were the other people in the picture with them? Cornwall, 1873. That was years before I was born, a part of her life I knew nothing about—but I was surprised that the Leightons had never mentioned knowing her, before she was Mum. Come to think of it, though, I couldn't remember Mum frequenting Leighton's Mercantile when she was alive. I fingered the edge of the photograph, the layers brittle and starting to separate, and wondered what it all meant—the photograph, the olives and the wishing well, Mrs. Munjal's strange reaction to the Display, and the cryptic note in Mr. Leighton's hand.

"Mrrr?" Peony's grave green eyes held a question.

"You're right. Mr. Leighton might have died of natural causes—but there are still questions here." Maybe answering one of them, at least, would make me feel better. If I could give Mrs. Leighton some kind of reason, perhaps it would help her, too.

But whatever I sought would not be found among the books and laboratory equipment in my schoolroom. I wasn't sure anything of Father's could help, either. But his study was snug and orderly and comforting, and being there always helped me make a little more sense of the world.

It was dim and chilly within, so I lit the gas and turned up the radiator. The room smelled lemony and leathery, a combination of furniture polish, moustache wax, and bookbinding, and I inhaled deeply. Across from Father's desk hung a framed photograph of Mum, from before they married. She didn't look much like the Mum I remembered, with her mischievous grin, chasing me about the nursery in her nightgown, long black hair loose and flying down her back. This young woman was prim and straight, in a stiff frock with a silly bustle, and gazing frankly at the camera, as if daring it to prove her wrong.

I stood a little straighter, looking at that picture. I always did. It had been taken when she was studying to be a doctor. I'd seen others that were more like I remembered her: wearing a cap and gown, in a comical pose with anatomical skeletons. Or on a hill in Cornwall with a pickaxe.

But the woman Father chose to look at every day was her serious side, the one brave and determined enough to defy convention and pick up a bone saw, right next to all those men saying she couldn't do it.

I walked closer to the picture—and noticed something I hadn't seen before. Or perhaps something that I'd always seen, but never Observed.

I touched the glass over the impressed letters on the oval mat. "Schofield Student Union."

"Dear old Schofield," said a soft, cheerful voice behind me, letting in a breath of warm air and an even stronger scent of lemon wax. Father strolled in and put an arm around my shoulders. "Dear Schofield, how we adored thee, our studious hours in your ivory towers . . ." he sang, and I turned to gape at him. Father didn't sing.

Peony leaped onto the desk and stretched luxuriantly, knocking Father's letter knife to the floor, where it buried, point-down, in the rug. She paused threateningly before the inkwell, until Father deigned to pick her up so she could attend to his whiskers. He was still in his dancing costume of white trousers, bracers, and beribboned bells strapped to his legs. How had he sneaked up on us?

I ought to have taken the chance to slip out of the room, before Father could lecture me about getting involved in another suspicious death—could I help it if I kept stumbling into them whilst doing perfectly innocent and Ordinary things? The Christmas Display Unveiling was exactly the sort of activity he was always urging me to do more—"What?"

He shifted back against the desk. "I was just thinking how much you look like your mother."

I let out my breath in a wistful sigh and tugged at my hair. "I do?"

I'd been told I took after Father's aunt Helena,* whom the Reader may recall from my previous adventures. But now I searched the portrait hopefully, looking not for the Mum I remembered but for signs of my own countenance. Maybe I did have a bit of that determined set to my jaw. Most people called it stubborn. (Aunt Helena called it impertinent.)

"She used to bite her lip, just like that."

I pressed my lips together neatly and looked at my hands.

"Professor Leighton was one of her favorites," Father said, and I jerked my head up warily.

"Professor Leighton?" I said, trying to sound innocent. "Mum knew him?"

"Oh, yes. He taught Classics." Father strolled to the bookcase and withdrew an unfamiliar booklet. Schofield Yearbook, 1874. Mum's signature was on the overleaf, swoopy and elegant:


  • “Younger Holmes fans (and older ones too) should be charmed by Elizabeth C. Bunce’s Cold-Blooded Myrtle.”
    —Wall Street Journal, “Holiday Gift Books 2021: Mysteries”

    “Comical footnotes pepper the text, adding wit to prose which is already dryly funny. Clues abound, giving astute readers the chance to solve the mystery along with Myrtle. Another excellent whodunit with a charming, snarky sleuth.”
    Kirkus Reviews, starred review

    “This third mystery in the Myrtle Hardcastle series brings all the Victorian charm and flair of the first two as the smart, high-spirited protagonist unravels the who and why behind a series of murders in her hometown of Swinburne. Curious, witty and tenacious, Myrtle navigates an elegantly twisty plot to finally finger the villain – or does she? This compelling story will keep readers guessing till the very last page.”
      Washington Parent

    “The most entertaining whodunit yet in this terrific series set in Victorian England. … Narrated in Myrtle’s smart, irreverent voice and peppered with amusing footnotes, the novel builds suspense as the body count rises right up to the dramatic finale.”
     — The Buffalo News

    “This series is a great way to introduce younger readers to this genre. There are plenty of clues to file away and figure out, and the twists and turns end in a very satisfying way! . . . Readers who enjoyed mysteries like [Taryn] Souders' Coop Knows the Scoop, [Kristin L.] Gray's The Amelia Six, and the work of Stuart Gibbs will find Myrtle a great introduction to the Victorian era and a keen detective when it comes to figuring out murders!”
    YA Books Central


On Sale
Oct 4, 2022
Page Count
368 pages

Elizabeth C. Bunce

About the Author

Elizabeth C. Bunce grew up on a steady diet of Sherlock Holmes, Trixie Belden, and Quincy, M.E., and always played the lead prosecutor in mock trial. She has never had a governess, and no one has ever accused her of being irrepressible, but a teacher did once call her “argumentative”—which was entirely untrue, and she can prove it. She lives in Kansas City with her husband and their cats. You can find her online at

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