The Secret of Bramble Hill

In April 1946, Tessa Field returns to Bramble Hill in the quaint Cornish seaside town of Covington Haven, England, after learning of her aunt Emily Maxwell’s drowning in a boating accident. The moment Tessa sets foot on the grounds of Bramble Hill, long-dormant psychic powers are stirred in her. Through a series of eerie manifestations and unexplained mishaps, she senses an entity in the house is trying to make contact and reveal dark secrets. Tessa narrowly escapes being trampled by a horse ridden by the handsome aristocrat and writer Peter Tremayne, a childhood friend. Upon their unexpected reunion, Tessa is immediately attracted to him, and he to her. Yet, despite their budding romance, she soon becomes distrustful of his true motives. Convinced that her aunt did not die in an accident but was murdered, Tessa investigates and soon becomes entangled in a web of deception, betrayal, and treachery that threatens her very life.

KUDOS FOR THE SECRET OF BRAMBLE HILL

In The Secret of Bramble Hill by Sue Owens Wright, Tessa Field returns to England from the US in 1946 when her beloved Aunt Emily dies unexpectedly. Arriving at her aunt’s estate, Bramble Hill, Tessa senses something isn’t right about her aunt’s death. Psychic powers she has buried for years suddenly return, warning Tessa of danger, but from whom? Could it be her aunt’s new husband Edward who might have killed Emily for her money? Or was it the famous author, Peter Tremayne, Tessa’s childhood friend, who seems to have ulterior motives in his sudden wooing of Tessa? Determined to prove that her aunt was murdered, Tessa ignores the warnings from her psychic senses and plows ahead, putting her own life in danger. Wright tells a chilling tale of deception, betrayal, and murder in a quaint and picturesque setting, with a strong plot and endearing characters. ~ Taylor Jones, Reviewer

The Secret of Bramble Hill by Sue Owens Wright is the story of greed, betrayal, and murder. Our heroine, Tessa Field, is called back to her hometown on the English coast after the death of her aunt, Emily, who died in a boating accident. Or so they claim. But Tessa doesn’t believe it. Blessed, or cursed, with the ability to see and hear the dead, Tessa is sure that her aunt was murdered and an entity in her aunt’s home Bramble Hill is trying to alert her as to who the killer is. As our amateur sleuth soon discovers, there is a number of possible culprits, including the dashing young author, Peter Talbot (now known as Peter Tremayne), a childhood friend of Tessa’s, who she now suspects could be after the fabled smuggler’s treasure purported to be buried on the grounds at Bramble Hill. The Secret of Bramble Hill is an intriguing historical mystery, with fast-paced action that caught my interest early on and held it all the way through.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

My thanks to revered author, teacher, and friend, John Dufresne, for his guidance and encouragement. Thanks also to PJ Nunn of BreakThrough Promotions for her continued expertise and support throughout the years.

The Secret of Bramble Hill

Sue Owens Wright

A Black Opal Books Publication

Copyright © 2016 by Sue Owens Wright

Cover Design by Sue Owens Wright

All cover art copyright © 2016

All Rights Reserved

EBOOK ISBN: 978-1-626945-85-2

EXCERPT

The spirit was trying to tell her something...but what?

Is anyone there? Tessa said, pushing the door open. The room was empty, but the embers of a fire glowed in the grate. She heard the sound of someone moaning, sobbing. She thought at first it was she herself who uttered the sounds unaware, for she surely could have at that moment. She sensed a loving, benevolent presence there with her in the room. Someone moved in the shadows.

Maggie, is it you? Was she crying because Edward had said something harsh to her? He was always barking orders at everyone. Then she saw the source of the eerie lament. It wasn’t the housekeeper. A vaporous form occupied Emily’s old leather chair. As Tessa watched, frozen in her footsteps, the entity gradually became more defined until she could clearly see that it was--had to be--the ghost of her aunt. The apparition covered her pale face with one hand, weeping more pitifully than any living person ever could. Dangling from her other hand was the same letter Aunt Emily had received one terrible night when her husband was killed in the war. Tessa was barely conscious of the tears that tumbled freely down her own cheeks.

As though suddenly aware of the young woman’s presence, the spirit ceased its lament and seemed to look straight into Tessa’s soul.

DEDICATION

To my devoted husband, Keith, the love of my life.

Chapter 1

She dwelt among the untrodden ways

Beside the springs of Dove,

A maid whom there were none to praise

And very few to love...

~ William Wordsworth

England 1946:

Bramble Hill brooded beneath a Wedgwood blue sky as the taxi traversed the same narrow country lane Tessa Field had so many times before. Lengthening shadows of late afternoon stretched across the lane leading to the stately old manor house. As in her childhood, Tessa counted from a distance the thirteen ornate chimneystacks of Bramble Hill. When, at last, she saw the familiar pigeon weathervane spread rusted iron wings and take circular flight in the wind, she knew she had arrived.

We’re here, miss, the driver said.

Turn in ahead at the courtyard, please.

Gravel crunched under the taxi wheels as it lumbered past the showy gardens. A kindly looking gent looked up from his hoeing to wave hello as they passed, and she waved back from the taxi window. Could that be Uncle Edward? Aunt Emily had never sent any photos of her second husband after their recent marriage.

Tessa opened the silver compact she had received from her aunt on her sixteenth birthday. It came with the travel case she would carry with her to America. The reflection she saw was not that of the shy, awkward girl of her youth but the countenance of a striking young woman with fiery hair to match her spirit. Smoothing her unruly mane, she tucked the compact into her purse. When she did, her fingers brushed the letter from her uncle that had arrived days earlier. Even before she had opened it, she sensed it bore sad tidings from faraway England.

The next day she boarded a plane bound for England and the quaint Cornish village of Covington Haven. Under happier circumstances, she would be eager to return to the land of her birth. She had longed to have an excuse to leave America, though a proposal of marriage to a wealthy man would have been reason enough to stay for most young English ladies of her class. Something far more compelling and intangible than a telegram brought her back to Bramble Hill.

Once more she unfolded the missive. Perhaps if she read it again, the words might be different.

Dear Tessa, I regret to inform that your aunt is presumed drowned in a boating accident on April 20, 1946. Memorial to be held for her on Saturday next. Fondly, Edward Maxwell.

Drowned in a boating accident. The phrase shot from the page like an arrow aimed straight at Tessa’s heart. How could Aunt Emily have drowned? She was an excellent swimmer and had sailed many times before. Aunt Emily was gone. Now Tessa had no other living relative, save for a step-uncle she had never laid eyes on.

The taxi lurched to a stop, and the driver opened the passenger door for her.

’Ere, let me ’elp you with yer luggage, miss.

It’s not heavy. I can manage, thanks.

Very good. I’ll be off, then. Enjoy your holiday in our beautiful country.

Thank you, but... She almost corrected the driver for not knowing she was British, until she realized her accent had faded a bit during the time she’d been away and some American slang had slipped into her speech.

Ta, miss. Very generous of you, the driver said as Tessa placed a pound note in his palm.

As she watched the taxi rumble back down the path to the main road, she remembered how in years past her aunt was always waiting at the gate to greet her whenever she visited. Any joy she might have felt now in returning to Bramble Hill had died with Aunt Emily.

The profusion of crimson rhododendrons and clusters of shell-pink azaleas were a cheerful contrast to the weathered visage of the house. The imported Italian marble fountain that had once graced the gardens was gone. Gone, too, were the whimsical topiaries where Tessa used to play hide and seek with the young boy from a neighboring estate. During those dreamy childhood summers in Cornwall with Aunt Emily and dear Uncle George, she delighted in wading barefoot in the fountain, pretending she was as beautiful as the alabaster nymph that spouted cool streams of water from pursed stone lips.

Here she could leave behind the bustle of London and the cruel taunts of her classmates at Hardwicke Boarding School. Witch girl! Witch girl! they teased the shy child with the strange eyes and even stranger powers of observation. It was true that she sensed things other people couldn’t. Her aunt had called it Tessa’s gift and told her that the unusual coloration of her irises--one azure, one amber--made her very special indeed and would bring her luck, like finding a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

Despite what Aunt Emily said, Tessa considered her extra-sensory perceptions more curse than gift. Even children in the village teased her, all except for her good friend, Peter.

Rusted hinges shrieked as she opened the iron gate that guarded the entrance to Bramble Hill. So many regrets flooded her mind now as she approached the timeworn steps of the country estate. Nowhere had she felt so safe and loved as in this place. Why had she ever left England? If only she hadn’t met the handsome but brash American GI at a USO dance in London who swept her off her feet during the war.

If she hadn’t kept up their correspondence that ultimately led to a marriage proposal, she might instead have come to live with Aunt Emily for good and her aunt might still be alive. Traveling halfway around the world had brought Tessa no more happiness than she had known here.

Ivy crept along the ancient limestone walls, nearly obscuring the ornately carved beams that framed the lead-paned windows. Chiseled in the ash timbers was a bas-relief of prickly brambles like the ones that choked the damp floor of nearby Hartcombe Wood. Etched above the door in Gothic tracery was the letter B.

Standing before the massive oak doors, she lifted the handle of the heavy brass knocker and let it drop with a clank. Fidgeting with the buttons of the cardigan that enveloped her petite but curvaceous frame, she nervously awaited some response from the other side of the door.

At last she heard the sound of footsteps. Surely it was Aunt Emily coming to greet her with a big hug, just as she always had.

No, these heavy footfalls must be Uncle Edward’s. Tessa felt her stomach knot with apprehension as the door latch clicked.

***

Her knock upon its door resounded to the very foundations of Bramble Hill, sending a shudder through each aged timber and ancient stone. Crystals in the dining room chandeliers shivered, casting shimmering ghosts of light on the walls and floor. Ashes stirred upon the hearths of every room as the house sighed.

Tessa...

Chapter 2

Tessa felt relieved when the door opened to reveal the cheerful countenance of a plump, ruddy-faced woman.

May I help you, miss? the woman inquired, smiling.

I’m Tessa Field, Aunt Emily’s niece, just arrived from America.

Oh, of course. Please come in. We’ve been expecting you. I’m Maggie, the housekeeper. Come this way, and I’ll show you to the parlor.

Tessa was about to tell her she already knew the way, but Maggie turned smartly on her heels and waddled down the hallway. Tessa followed the housekeeper along the familiar oak-paneled walls. The ticking of the massive grandfather clock echoed solemnly in the hall as it had for generations. They passed the gallery of Bramble Hill’s ancestors, including Lord Walthingham and his beautiful Lady Rose, rumored by local folk to haunt the cliffs at Seaborn Point where they fell to their deaths a century ago. She noticed that the portrait of her aunt had been moved from its usual place. Aunt Emily now smiled benevolently from the end of the hall.

You’re just in time for tea, Maggie said. Please make yourself comfortable here whilst I finish preparing it.

Tessa sat in the brown leather chair beside the massive stone fireplace where a toasty fire crackled. She thought of the many evenings she had cuddled in her aunt’s lap while she read Cornish folk tales of fairies, witches, and elves. Tessa was glad to see the old pianoforte in the corner where it had always been. She should have felt safe and comfortable here beside the fire’s warmth, but a strange chill pervaded the room. Always a cheerfully decorated room, awash in sunlight from the expansive lead-paned windows, the parlor now was dark and gloomy. Everything else in the room was unfamiliar to her. The chintz-covered settee had been reupholstered in somber, scratchy tweed. Gone was the gay pink and gold striped wallpaper she remembered. The walls were now papered in a gaudy red and green tartan plaid. It reminded her of a horse blanket.

Tessa noticed the painting that now hung above the piano in place of the peaceful seascape of Covington Harbor she recalled from years past. It depicted a pack of deerhounds felling a doe. The dogs’ teeth sank deep in the bloodied flank of their prey, and their feral eyes appeared to glitter wildly in the fire’s reflection. Aunt Emily would have thought the artwork to be in poor taste for this genteel parlor where she had often entertained her guests. Tessa thought one of her own amateur paintings would have even been an improvement over this one. Aunt Emily always encouraged her young niece’s love for art by allowing her to explore the countryside for hours with the watercolor paint box and brushes she gave her one summer while visiting. It was on one of those afternoons while painting a seascape from high atop the cliffs overlooking the harbor that she had first met Peter. She smiled, remembering their meeting and how he was writing poetry in a journal but was too embarrassed to admit it to her. Boys didn’t write poems!

Tessa arose from the chair and sat down at the piano, trying her best to ignore the ugly painting above it. She gently lifted the fall and rested her fingers on the keys, testing the tone by playing several chords. The piano seemed slightly out of tune, like everything else in the room, but the sound was not unpleasant to her ear. She tried to remember some songs she used to play and thought of one that Aunt Emily had taught her.

There’ll be bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover. Singing that song brought a flood of happy memories of balmy summer evenings, parties, and music. Sounds of laughter and clinking glasses could be heard throughout the house in those days. Bramble Hill and its inhabitants seemed untouched by the war, at least to a child. After Aunt Emily had tucked her in for the night, the little girl tiptoed downstairs and hid behind the open parlor doors where she could peek at the guests unnoticed. How she admired the lovely ladies with their elegant gowns and sparkling diamonds. She thought they looked like flowers blooming in the garden. The soft rustle of their petticoats was the whisper of spring rain on the heath. Even now, she fancied she could hear the echo of laughter and idle chatter of guests as they smoked their Player’s cigarettes in jeweled holders. In her mind’s eye, she saw them gathered in a sing-along around the piano while Aunt Emily played and Uncle Georgie sang in his rich baritone voice. After her uncle died during the war, the summer parties did, too. Suddenly, Tessa stopped playing. The piano’s resonant tones trailed off, and the room was once more as silent as a grave.

The door burst open. Startled by the intrusion, she whirled, her heart hammering in her breast.

Here we are, miss Maggie said, balancing a tray.

Oh, it’s you.

Sorry to interrupt. Please don’t stop. It was lovely. No one here plays the piano.

Tessa blushed with embarrassment. Playing the piano uninvited, she felt like a child again in her aunt’s house, as though she’d been caught with her fingers in the pie. She had always been instructed to first ask permission before playing the pianoforte. Aunt Emily had kept it in perfect condition in happier days. Oh, for those glad days again at Bramble Hill. Tessa’s daydreams dissipated like the steam rising from the feast Maggie bore on the tea tray. She set before her guest a plate heaped with two Cornish pasties; crisp, golden chips; and freshly baked scones.

Will my uncle be joining me? Tessa asked when she noticed the feast fit for a farmer.

No, miss. He sends his apologies that he couldn’t be here to greet you upon your arrival, but he instructed me to attend to your every need in his absence.

You’re very kind, but I can’t possibly eat this.

Oh, you don’t care for pasties, then? Maggie frowned. No one had ever complained about her cooking before.

They look delicious, she said, realizing she had unintentionally offended the woman. It’s just that there’s so much food, and I’m not very hungry.

You will have a cup of tea, though?

Yes, that would be lovely. It had been a long time since Tessa had tasted good English tea.

Glad that at least the tea would not be wasted, Maggie removed the cozy from the pot and filled the cup to the brim.

Milk and sugar, miss?

Just milk, please.

Tessa stirred the milk in the tea until the beverage was a golden hue. The delicate perfume of Earl Grey filled her senses as she sipped the tea.

What a delight! Americans haven’t a clue about brewing a proper pot of tea. They drop a bag of Lipton’s in a cup of tepid water and call it tea.

Maggie laughed. I’m glad you’re enjoying it. The mistress never missed her afternoon cuppa.

Yes, I know. Had you been with my aunt very long?

Your aunt took Alf and me on after Miss Dorcas ran off and married that bloke from Manchester.

Oh, Miss Dorcas. I remember her. She was quite pretty, and popular with the local lads.

A little too popular. Got herself preggers, she did.

Who is Alf? Tessa inquired, hoping to avert further tittle-tattle.

He’s my husband and works here as the groundskeeper. You must have seen him on your way in. He’s always mucking about in his Wellies, tending the garden and such.

Oh, yes. I do remember seeing a friendly-looking gent as we drove down the lane. I thought that he must be Uncle Edward.

Heavens, no! Maggie giggled, her ample bosom jiggling like jam. He’s a much younger man, in his thirties, I believe.

Really? Aunt Emily is--was--in her late forties. She looked out the window, blinking away tears.

Maggie warmed Tessa’s tea. Alf and I grew very fond of your aunt before she...er...We were so very sorry to learn of your aunt’s death, Miss Field.

Oh, you mean you weren’t here when it happened?

No, miss. We were on holiday in Brighton at the time.

Brighton. That’s such a lovely spot, isn’t it? My aunt took me there after Uncle Georgie died. Said she needed ‘Brighton-ing up.’

Times were hard then with the war and such.

It was worse for her after Uncle Georgie was killed.

I remember those days all too well. Everything was scarce, even flour. Why, the weather itself was against us. I suppose Brighton was indeed a pleasant distraction for your aunt.

It was so delightful, full of marvelous sounds and smells.

And the Royal Pavilion!

I’ll never forget it. It looked like a palace made of diamonds. I still recall the Kewpie doll Aunt Emily bought me on the pier. The dolly held a tiny Union Jack in her hand.

Tessa wasn’t accustomed to confiding in someone she had just met, particularly a servant, but something about Maggie’s kindly manner made her feel comfortable to do so.

Your aunt was a fine woman and well respected in the village. She was always happiest when she was making others happy.

I know. Tessa’s eyes misted, remembering special days with her aunt that now seemed all too brief. I lost the doll later that same day. It would have been the most perfect day of my life, if... Her voice hitched with emotion.

What happened, miss? Maggie was like a Pekingese dog perched on her seat, anticipating the next juicy tidbit.

Tessa took another sip of tea to wash down the lump in her throat. I fell off the pier and nearly drowned.

Oh, dear, miss. You must have been terrified.

I was. The water was deep and so cold. I got caught in a current and couldn’t break free. I’ve never been a very good swimmer.

"Nor am I. I’d have sunk to the bottom of the sea like