The Secrets of Whitcomb Manor, page 1
The Secrets of Whitcomb Manor
Pinkerton Man Book 6
C.J. Baty
Contents
About the Author
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
Other Books in the Pinkerton Man Series
And the Stories Continue
Copyright © 2023 C.J. Baty
The Secrets of Whitcomb Manor (The Pinkerton Man Bk 6)
First Edition February 20, 2023
Published in the United States
Cover Art KRDesigns
Editing by Edits with a Touch of Grace https://www.facebook.com/editswithatouchofgrace/
Cover content used for illustrative purposes only, and any person depicted is a model.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to an actual person, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental. The Author will make known specifics in Author Notes.
The following story is set in the USA and therefore has been written in US English. The spelling and usage reflect that.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Owner, except where permitted by law. To request permission and for all other inquires, contact cjbaty27@gmail.com by email.
About the Author
C.J. loves a good mystery, hot sexy guys, the mountains, and a happily ever after. When she decided to try her hand in the book world, it only made sense to combine those things. She firmly believes that love is love in all of its shapes and forms. Her books contain broken spirits that need to be mended and a mystery, often a murder, which needs to be solved, so those spirits can find love. She calls southwest Ohio home, but her heart lives in the hills of Tennessee.
www.cjbaty.com
For all of you who love these characters as much as I do.
Thank you.
Chapter One
Saying goodbye to Lizzie was harder than Michael thought it would be. He was affectively cutting himself off from anything and anyone that reminded him of the man he lost. It was the only way he could deal with the pain of losing Stiles.
During the voyage back to England, he walked the deck most nights. Lying in a bed that could have, should have, been shared with his lover was just not possible. Sometimes he would fall asleep in a deck chair wishing the ship would sink and the pain would be over. But it didn’t, and he had to go on. He was sure he ate something while on the ship, though he couldn’t remember anything specific. Allowing himself to have a drink occasionally wasn’t good either. No use in getting drunk, it just made the nightmares more real.
His ship docked at Southampton on the first of May 1911. It was fitting as it was a good day to begin a new life. Spring in England would be full of blooms and new life. Exhaustion finally allowed him to sleep without dreams when he checked into his hotel. He would only be there a few nights before he boarded the train that would take him to Whitcomb Village and his new home, Whitcomb Manor.
The next day at the solicitor's office, he met the man who had sent the parcel containing information about his inheritance. He was a thin balding man. He reminded Michael of the scarecrows he had seen when he was in Durango with Lizzie and... No, he had to stop thinking about him.
“Mr. O’Leary, I am pleased to finally be speaking with you in person,” Mr. Fiddleston said, as he shook Michael’s hand.
“I’m pleased to meet you as well.”
Michael moved to take the seat offered to him. It was directly across the huge oak desk that dwarfed the small man seated behind it. He suppressed the smile trying to escape his lips. It wouldn’t do to laugh at the man who held the keys to his new life.
“I must ask, how on earth did you ever find me?” Michael had been wondering this for some time.
“After your father took you to America, your mother received letters from you for a few years. She kept them all,” he said. “I was very fond of her. Nearly married her mother back in the day. Anyway, the news of her mother's death was quite a blow to her. You might remember she took to her bed for a year.”
Michael did remember.
Mr. Fiddleston stopped long enough to ring a bell sitting on the corner of his desk. Momentarily, the secretary Michael had met on the way into the office carried in a tray with tea and biscuits. He placed it on the desk in front of Mr. Fiddleston and left quietly.
“In her family, the matriarch inherited the family home, land, and money. I’m sure you realize that is not the usual practice. Your mother inherited everything, and you were her only living child. She realized much too late that your father wasn’t to be trusted. So that you would inherit after her, she asked me to make her brother, George Whit, the manager of the estate in your behalf until you reached the age of twenty-five.”
He added cream and several sugars to his cup of tea. Michael took his plain and preferred it strong. Thankfully, the tea met his needs. Mr. Fiddleston stuffed two biscuits in his mouth and washed them down with the hot brew.
“By the time your last letter came telling of your father’s death, your mother was ill herself. She died shortly after. You were about seventeen at the time. I lost track of you then. Your Uncle George has done a fine job of taking care of the estate, and his son took over when the elderly George himself became ill. He passed last December.”
Michael excepted a refill when the gentleman offered, hoping it would help him not drift off. He had to admit he was having difficulty keeping his mind on what the man was saying. He spoke in a dull even speech.
“Imagine my surprise when I contacted a detective agency in New York only to find out that you were actually working for the Pinkertons. The last report I had received about you said you were teaching at some boy’s school in Boston. However, did you get involved with the Pinkertons? I’ve heard stories about them, you know.” The look of concern on the man’s face contrasted with the napkin dipped into his shirt collar and the biscuit crumbs on his suit jacket.
“That’s a long story for another day,” Michael offered.
“Well, as I said, your cousin George has done an excellent job continuing the Whitcomb Manor Foundation. He takes care of the finances for the village, the sharecroppers, and the vicarage. Evaline, his sister, is in charge of the house, including the kitchen staff and the house staff. There is a head groundskeeper who looks after the staff caring for the property and animals. And there’s Vicar Williams, who receives stipends from the foundation. He sees to the vicarage and teaches the youngest children in the village to prepare them to go to boarding school when they come of age. The foundation pays for their education as long as they agree to come back to Whitcomb Village and work there. It has worked out nicely.”
Michael was having trouble grasping the depth at which this inheritance was growing to be. If he heard the man right, he would be the caretaker not only for the lands and house of Whitcomb Manor, but the village and villagers as well.
“Just how many people live in the village?” Michael asked.
“Between the village itself and the farmers who live on Whit land, I’d say possibly eighty or ninety.”
Shocked, Michael rose from his seat and crossed the room to look out the window at the busy street. Carts pulled by horses and motor vehicles crowded the street as well as people passing by. It looked much like New York or even St. Louis. A gush of weariness engulfed him. He wished he were back there-- in his own home with the two people he loved most in the world. Then he remembered, that wasn’t his home anymore.
Mr. Fiddleston cleared his throat and drew Michael’s attention away from the window.
“It’s a lot to absorb, isn’t it? Do you have any questions for me?”
Michael thought for a moment before he spoke, “I don’t believe so. My train doesn’t leave for Whitcomb until Thursday. If I think of anything, I’ll contact you before I leave.”
Mr. Fiddleston showed him to the door, handing him a large folder with all of the details of the Whitcomb Manor Foundation. He told him to go through it at his own leisure. Michael nodded toward the secretary in the outer office as he opened the door onto that busy street he had been staring at only moments before.
What on earth had he gotten himself into? He wasn’t a landowner, and he had no idea how to keep a village working. God, he missed Stiles and Lizzie. This would be so much easier with them. He was beginning to understand how a person could fall into melancholy and let it draw you into its web.
Chapter Two
Looking around, he noticed that there were only a handful of other passengers in the train car. The train moved along at a steady pace. Slow enough for Michael to enjoy the countrysid e when they left Southampton’s city limits. The change from city to country was comforting. Michael sat quietly watching the scenery go by. The usher interrupted his wandering.
“Hello. What are you doing...” His words dropped off as Michael looked up at the man.
“Oh, I’m sorry sir. I thought you were someone else,” his face flushed as he spoke. “Is there anything I can get for you? We should be arriving in Whitcomb in about an hour.”
“No, thank you,” Michael answered.
The man stared at him a moment longer and then crossed the isle to chat with someone else. Michael thought the encounter curious. On his way back down the aisle, the usher gave him the same unusual look.
He must have dropped off because the next thing he heard was the announcement that they had arrived in Whitcomb. He gathered his hat, coat, and satchel, then lumbered out of his seat toward the exit. The small depot office was no bigger than a hut and the man at the window seemed to be surprised when he looked up to see Michael.
“I thought Lyle was coming after the… Who are you?”
“Michael O’Leary. I believe someone from Whitcomb is coming to collect me and my luggage,” Michael answered.
“Ah, yes, sir. I believe the groundskeeper, Lyle Cumbersome is bringing the automobile,” he answered. “There he is now.”
Michael turned to see a pale yellow Mercedes, with the top down, pulling up to the boarding platform. The driver got out, waved to the usher who was standing with his luggage. The usher pointed toward Michael. Shock crossed the man’s face then quickly disappeared. Michael couldn’t understand what was going on.
“Mr. Cumbersome,” Michael asked.
“Yes, sir. I’ll get your luggage loaded and we can be off.”
The man wasn’t impolite, but he wasn’t overly friendly either. Once the car was loaded, he opened the passenger side door for Michael. He went around the back of the car, then waved at the usher who was still standing on the platform. The automobile lurched when he pushed in the clutch, then they were off.
“How far is it to the Whitcomb Manor, after we leave the village?” Michael asked.
“A little more than a mile. It’s a nice walk or horseback ride.”
“I hope it didn’t disturb your work to come after me,” Michael said.
Lyle said nothing.
Michael couldn’t tell if the man was naturally quiet or angry with him for some unknown reason.
The village wasn’t huge but held some interesting little buildings. He noted the inn and the blacksmith’s shop, which also had a sign referring to automobile repairs. Then the most delicious aroma drifted by his nose.
“My goodness. Where is that coming from?” Michael asked.
“Smells like Mr. Tallman is baking bread today,” Lyle answered. “He makes a right good fruit pie. too.”
Whatever that smell was, Michael knew he’d be making a visit to Mr. Tallman’s and soon.
The road ahead split into two directions. They took the lane on the right. Just as they crested a small hill in the road, Whitcomb Manor came into sight.
Michael had traveled the world, stayed in some of the best hotels offered, but he had never seen anything as breathtaking as Whitcomb Manor. He knew from his meeting with Mr. Fiddleston that the house was built in the early 1800’s. Many additions and updates had been made in the following years. It was three stories high with balustrades jutting out from double hung doors that dotted the two corners of the house. Brick had been added to the façade of the building sometime later.
As they drove up the lane to the house, Michael could see other buildings surrounding the main house. Perhaps home to the cattle and sheep he could see grazing in a nearby field. He was sure there was a stable as well. Mr. Fiddleston had mentioned several excellent horseflesh kept at the Manor.
Mr. Cumbersome stopped the car in front of the Manor. There was a wide covered veranda running the length of the house. Chairs and tables placed across it made for a comfortable place to enjoy the view. Lyle opened the door for Michael and hurried up the steps to the double door entrance.
Upon entering the foyer, Michael witnessed a wide staircase circling up and splitting into two sections, right and left. A large chandelier hung in the middle of the foyer spreading light and warmth to the vastness of the room. Tables with flower-filled vases were spread out across the foyer offering a romantic atmosphere. Michael was taking in the simple yet grandness of the room when a nearby door opened.
“Michael, I’m so glad…” The man’s words stopped short when Michael turned to face him.
“Good God! It’s like staring in a looking glass!”
The man was right. Michael walked toward the stranger who could have been his twin and they stopped in front of each other.
“I do believe you are my cousin Michael,” he said. “I’m George Whit. I had no idea that we looked so much alike.” He grinned and grabbed Michael’s hand, shaking it rigorously.
“It’s amazing, the resemblance.” Michael stared at George.
He noted that their faces were similar. Though Michael’s nose had a slight tilt to the left, George’s went to the right. The hair color was similar as well, though George’s was lighter, possibly due to being outside more than Michael. It wasn’t noticeable until they stood side by side, but George was slightly shorter than Michael with a more rounded middle.
“We haven’t seen each other since we came to stay with you when your mother was ill. I don’t remember anyone making note of the likeness back then. Must have come about as we grew up.”
The smile on George’s face was welcoming and heartfelt. Michael liked him at once. From the left, Michael heard a sharp gasp.
“This is my sister Evaline,” George said.
The woman who approached wore a frown on her face. She clearly was not happy to see Michael and yet, her surprise at the likeness between Michael and George couldn’t be mistaken.
“Look at this, dear sister. We are like twins,” George said happily.
“You don’t look that much alike,” Evaline grumbled.
“Welcome,” she offered. Michael could clearly see it cost her to offer that one word to him.
“Could you have Elsa bring tea and biscuits to the drawing room?”
She nodded and left as quickly as she had come.
“Don’t mind her, she’s always a tad irritated. I’m never sure if it’s in response to something I’ve done or not done. You’ll get used to her,” George said as he grasped Michael’s elbow and led him in the direction of the door he had come from.
“Sir,” Lyle called from the front door, “Mr. O’Leary’s luggage.”
“Take it to Father’s old room. He is the master now.”
Michael was sure he heard Lyle mumble something as he went through the front door. He was off on the wrong foot with at least two members of the Whitcomb Manor. But why?
Chapter Three
“How much land?” Michael asked in awe.
Elsa had brought in the tea and left the room quickly. Surprised, she looked between George and Michael. George chatted happily about the manor and the surrounding land. Michael could see he was proud of it and their family.
“There’s two hundred acres here. That includes the tenant farmers’ land, the village proper, the forests, and the orchards. The land produces wheat and rye, which we sell at market in Southampton. The cattle and sheep are used here at the manor for milk, butter, and cheese. The orchards provide apples and cherries in season. We use what is produced here and the tenant farmers provide other fresh vegetables in season as well.
