From Publishers Weekly
Carola Dunn offers a Christmas-themed crime story in Mistletoeand Murder: A Daisy Dalrymple Mystery, the 11th in her winning seriesof light whodunits set in the 1920s (after 2001's To Davy JonesBelow). Here Daisy and family find their holiday stay at Brockdene, aCornish estate modeled on the real-life Cotehele, rudely interruptedby murder.
Copyright 2002 Reed Business Information, Inc. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
Copyright 2002 Reed Business Information, Inc. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
From Library Journal
Lord Westmoor invites magazine writer/series sleuth Daisy Dalrymple (Rattle His Bones), Scotland Yard husband Alec, and Daisy's titled mum to his stately home for Christmas. The earl himself may not be there, but several poor relations will, including offshoots from a younger son who died before proving that he had married his Indian mistress. Now one of the dead man's sons has brought an ancient clergyman from India who has such proof, but before he can give it, someone kills him. Daisy and husband spring into action, surrounded by historic armaments, secret rooms, hidden treasure, and family secrets. For fans of British cozies and Dorothy Sayers's novels, this is a very inviting situation.
Copyright 2002 Reed Business Information, Inc. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
Copyright 2002 Reed Business Information, Inc. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
From Booklist
The eleventh entry in the Daisy Dalrymple series is replete with well-drawn characters, snappy dialogue, and interesting plot twists. As Christmas 1923 approaches, Daisy--now married to Scotland Yard Inspector Alec Fletcher--turns a holiday visit to Cornwall into a writing assignment. She must profile Brockdene, the historical estate where Lord Westmoor has stashed away some of his lower-class relations. Accompanying her to the estate are Alec, his young daughter Belinda, and Daisy's demanding mother, the Dowager Viscountess Dalrymple. Once ensconced in the old mansion, they get to know the quirky Norville clan, led by bitter Godfrey and his clueless wife, Dora. With its ghost stories and rumors of buried treasure, Brockdene seems a fabulous setting for a murder mystery, and indeed, a despotic chaplain is stabbed in the back, forcing a grumbling Alec to give up his Christmas holiday to investigate. Dunn gracefully imparts historical facts about the house--which is modeled after real-life Cotehele, a National Trust property--while painting a fascinating portrait of human nature. Easily the best entry in a charming series. Jenny McLarin
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
Book Description
In December 1923, the formidable Dowager Viscountess Dalrymple has decided that for Christmas the family will all gather at Brockdene in Cornwall at the invitation of Lord Westmoor. Her daughter - Daisy Dalrymple Fletcher - is something less than pleased but yields to the demands of her mother, especially as she'll be there just before the holidays working on another article for Town and Country about the estate itself. But the family gathering quickly goes awry. Brockdene, it seems, is only occupied by the Norvilles - poor relations of Lord Westmoor - and Westmoor himself won't be joining them. So Daisy, her husband Detective Chief Inspector Alec Fletcher of Scotland Yard, and their family must spend their Christmas holiday trapped in an ancestral estate with a rich history of lore, ghost stories, rumors of hidden treasure and secret passageways with a family seething with resentments, grudges and a faintly scandalous history.
The veneer of civility that pervades the halls of Brockdene, however, begins to wear thin when long-held family secrets threaten to bubble over, and one of the Christmas guests if found savagely murdered. With few clues as to who committed the murder and with too many motives as to why, it is once again up to Daisy to sort out the truth that lies beneath a generation of poisonous secrets.
--This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
The veneer of civility that pervades the halls of Brockdene, however, begins to wear thin when long-held family secrets threaten to bubble over, and one of the Christmas guests if found savagely murdered. With few clues as to who committed the murder and with too many motives as to why, it is once again up to Daisy to sort out the truth that lies beneath a generation of poisonous secrets.
About the Author
Carola Dunn is the author of numerous historical novels as well as ten previous mysteries featuring Daisy Dalrymple. Born and raised in England, she now lives in Eugene, Oregon.
--This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
1
London, 1923
“Mother, you simply can’t!”
“It’s no good being difficult, Daisy.” The Dowager Viscountess’s smugness insinuated itself between the crackles on the wire. “Perhaps you didn’t catch what I said—this is a shockingly bad line. I wrote to Lord Westmoor as soon as Violet mentioned that you were going to Brockdene just before Christmas. And I must say I do think I shouldn’t have to wait to hear your news from your sister.”
“Sorry, Mother, I’ve been frightfully busy since Alec and I got home from America. But …”
“Westmoor was most obliging. It’s arranged already. We shall all join you on the twenty-third.”
“All?”
“I warned Westmoor that you had married a policeman. You ought to have invited the earl to the wedding, Daisy. The Norvilles are relatives, after all.”
“Only just,” Daisy muttered rebelliously. “Second cousins by marriage twice removed, or something.” Still, that slight connection had emboldened her to ask his lordship’s permission to write about Brockdene, so she couldn’t very well complain—
—As Lady Dalrymple continued to do. Daisy had missed some of what she said, but she gathered Alec had not been banished from the family gathering because of his infra dig profession.
“And I suppose one can’t very well separate him from his little girl at Christmas.”
“I should hope not, Mother! Besides, Belinda is my daughter now, too.”
The telephone wafted a resigned sigh to her ear. “Yes, dear. And Violet tells me she and Derek are thick as thieves, so perhaps they will keep each other out of mischief.”
Or egg each other on, Daisy didn’t say. “What about Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Darling, do you think your mother-in-law would be quite comfortable in such company? A bank manager’s widow, I gather, and merely a bank branch …”
“Mother, Bel’s her only grandchild, and it’s Christmas we’re talking about!” An unconvinced silence forced Daisy to play her trump. “And she plays bridge. She’s out right now at her weekly bridge evening.”
“Hmmm.” There was a thoughtful pause, then the dowager snapped, “Oh, very well, since you’ve never bothered to learn the game. I did mention to Westmoor that she might come, and he raised no objection. Now really, Daisy, I can’t afford to go on chatting endlessly with the cost of trunk calls what it is. I’ll see you on Sunday. Good-bye.”
Daisy hung the ear-piece on its hook and hurried from the entrance hall back to the sitting room. It was a pleasant room, for which Daisy gave the credit to Alec’s first wife. The heavy mahogany furniture had been reupholstered with cheerful prints; the walls, no doubt once been covered with the sombre wallpaper beloved by the Victorians, were now painted white; while over the mantelpiece where—Daisy suspected—a Stag had stood endlessly At Bay, hung a colourful view of Montmartre.
Alec’s mother could not blame Daisy for that transformation. She did, quite rightly, hold her responsible for the lapse from rigid formality represented by books and magazines left open on tables, a half-completed jigsaw puzzle, a silk scarf flung over the back of a chair, and such depredations.
The worst of these sprawled on the hearthrug before the cheerful fire: Nana, Belinda’s multicoloured mongrel puppy, who sprang up when Daisy entered the room and pranced to greet her as if she had been gone for five months, not five minutes.
“Down, Nana!” said Bel, tossing back a ginger pigtail as she looked round from the game of chess she was playing with her father. “Sorry, Mummy.”
“It’s all right, darling, she didn’t jump up. She’s getting much better.”
So was Belinda. She no longer stammered when she addressed Daisy as “Mummy,” as she had at first, though she could barely remember her own mother. She was quite comfortable now with frequent hugs and other signs of affection, which her grandmother had withheld for fear of spoiling the child. She smiled and laughed much more often than when Daisy had first entered her life.
Daisy recognized her self-satisfied musing as an attempt to postpone revealing the Dowager Viscountess’s latest machinations. At least Mrs. Fletcher’s absence meant Daisy could let Alec break the news to her gently, later.
“Darling,” she began guiltily, just as Alec moved a bishop, looked up, and asked, “What did your mother have to say, Daisy?”
“You don’t want to know.” Daisy dropped into a chair. “You remember Mother was complaining that her house is too small to have the whole family visit for Christmas? But she wouldn’t accept Cousin Edgar’s invitation for all of us to Fairacres. I wish she’d be reconciled to Edgar and Geraldine. It’s nearly five years since Father died and the poor man inherited.”
“She might find it easier if the Dower House weren’t so close to Fairacres.”
“If it wasn’t that, it would be something else. When she’s in her coffin, she’ll complain if she’s buried five feet eleven and a half inches down instead of six feet.”
“Little pitchers,” Alec warned.
“Oh dear, forget I said that, Bel!”
“Said what?” Belinda asked, raising her eyes from the chessboard. “Daddy, I rather think you’ve cornered my queen.”
“Beast,” said Daisy, who hadn’t the patience for chess.
“He’s not! I told Daddy he mustn’t let me win.”
“And I told you, you mustn’t let him let you win. Quite right, darling. He’s still a beast.”
“No, he’s not,” Bel said anxiously. “He gave me four pawns before we started.”
“Right-oh, he’s absolved.”
“You’re not, though, Daisy,” Alec put in, grinning. “What has Lady Dalrymple been up to?”
“You are not going to believe this. She’s somehow coerced Lord Westmoor into inviting us all to spend Christmas at Brockdene. Vi and Johnnie, too. And your mother, of course.”
“Will Derek come?” At Daisy’s nod, Bel’s freckled face glowed. “Spiffing!”
“You did say Superintendent Crane is giving you Christmas off, darling?”
“Yes, I worked over both Christmas and New Year’s Day last year. I’ve no excuse to turn down Lord Westmoor’s invitation. Does he realize what he’s let himself in for, do you suppose?”
“He’s not going to be there, I’m pretty sure; but I bet you anything you like Mother thinks he will be. She didn’t give me a chance to break the news.”
“Our host won’t be present?”
“Well, when he gave me permission to write about Brockdene, he told me it was an ancient family custom to spend Christmas there, but the custom fell into abeyance ages ago. Now the house is inhabited by poor relations. I don’t believe he told Mother. Perhaps he was getting his own back for being manoeuvred into issuing the invitation. She’ll be furious!”
Nor would Mother be pleased to discover what the journey to Brockdene entailed, Daisy thought, stepping up onto the cobbled quay from the motor-boat which had brought her up the Tamar from Plymouth. She turned to wave good-bye to the boatman.
Lord Westmoor had warned her that Brockdene was quite isolated. Not only was the way by road tortuous in the extreme, but at this time of year the Cornish lanes were deep in mud. Motor vehicles attempting them frequently had to be rescued by cart horses. From the nearest station, at Calstock, one might walk a couple of miles to Brockdene along a miry public footpath, but the earl did not think Daisy would care for that. To hire a launch and go up the river was quicker, simpler, and cheaper than any alternative.
Though Daisy’s editor at Town and Country took some persuading that he wouldn’t be paying her expenses for a pleasure jaunt, eventually she convinced him. Nonetheless, the boat trip had been a pleasure.
For a start it was a beautiful day. Daisy was quite warm enough in her heather-mixture tweed costume, without her winter coat. The soft, mild air of the West Country had little in common with the dank chill of London’s atmosphere of coal smoke and petrol fumes. The sun shone through a high, shifting haze, bringing an intermittent sparkle to the blue-grey waters of Plymouth Sound. Herring gulls circled overhead. The chatty boatman, his Devonshire accent thick and rich as clotted cream, had announced the sights to Daisy as they put-putted past: Plymouth Hoe, Drake’s Island, the busy Royal Navy dockyards at Devonport, the Spanish Steps.
As they continued the channel narrowed and the water turned to grey-green. The Tamar wound between yellow reed beds and wooded cliffs, with the hills of Devon and Cornwall beyond to either side, a patchwork of green, gold, and brown. The boatman pointed out a tiny stone chapel right on the riverbank at Halton Quay. He told Daisy he’d heard there was another such at Brockdene, not visible from the river. Near the chapel, lime kilns belched smoke into the air, making quicklime for fertilizer.
“...
