PRAISE FOR VICTORIA DOWD

  “Historical crime doesn’t get much better than this – a vivid world, characters that leap off the page, all wrapped up in a delicious whodunnit. Just fabulous.”

  – Jonathon Whitelaw, author of The Bingo Hall Detectives

  “I adored this fantastic first book in the new series by Victoria Dowd. I raced through Death in the Aviary in a matter of days and was gripped all the way to the fiendishly-clever reveal. Dowd’s characters leap off the page, and her humourous touch makes Death in the Aviary not just a superbly-clever puzzle but also a thoroughly entertaining read. With this brilliant innovation on the ‘locked room mystery’, Dowd firmly establishes herself as the modern queen of ‘golden age’ detective fiction. I cannot wait to read the next instalment of Charlotte Blood’s adventures.”

  – Phillipa East, author of Dagger short-listed Little White Lies

  “Utterly brilliant. Victoria Dowd proves yet again that she’s in the top tier of mystery fiction writers, with wit, a fabulous puzzle, and the odd frisson of spookiness.”

  – Tom Mead, author of Death of the Conjuror

  “Victoria Dowd’s brilliant evocation of ‘Golden Age’ crime with her ‘locked lift’ mystery wonderfully captures the spirit of the age without ever reading as pastiche. Certainly, I detected echoes of the ‘queens’ of the genre, especially the aristo vibe of a certain Miss Sayers (although also the ‘whimsy’ of a certain Mr Waugh) but Death in the Aviary remains very much Ms Dowd’s book, not simply a celebration but a compelling and ingenious reimagining very much on her own terms. A very bright beginning for Miss Blood!”

  – Tom Benjamin, author of the Daniel Leicester series

  “Charlotte Blood is a wonderful new heroine set to take the world of detection by storm. Feisty, intelligent, and deeply sensitive, she jumps off the page in a beautifully written, terrifyingly atmospheric gothic page turner, that keeps you guessing to the very last line. Family feuds, hidden secrets, windswept moors and talking ravens, an irresistible combination!”

  – Sam Blake, author of Three Little Birds

  “A beautifully-crafted ode to the Golden Age of detective fiction. There’s much here for fans of the classic genre: a forbidding stately pile set on windswept moors; imperious aristos; viciously-loyal servants; a sinister occultist; and even a ‘locked lift’ mystery. Hugely entertaining! I look forward to the plucky Charlotte Blood’s next exciting adventure!”

  – Phil Lecomber, author of the Piccadilly Noir series

  “A richly characterised detective story with a haunting atmosphere and a terrific puzzle at its heart. Delicious!”

  – Daniel Sellers, author of Murder in the Gallowgate

  “An atmospheric, gothic deep-dive into the Golden Age of crime fiction, Death in the Aviary is a thrilling start to the Charlotte Blood series. Dysfunctional families, lies, betrayals, ravens galore and a ‘locked lift’ crime scene make this a brilliant puzzle of a story that keeps you guessing to the end. Perfectly executed!”

  – Eleni Kyriacou, author of the ‘Between the Covers’ book club pick, The Unspeakable Acts of Zina Pavlou

  DATURA BOOKS

  An imprint of Watkins Media Ltd

  Unit 11, Shepperton House

  89-93 Shepperton Road

  London N1 3DF

  UK

  daturabooks.com

  A little birdie told me…

  A Datura Books paperback original, 2025

  Copyright © Victoria Dowd 2025

  Edited by Ella Chappell, Saxon Bullock and Alice Abrams

  Cover by Alice Claire Coleman

  Set in Meridien

  All rights reserved. Victoria Dowd asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Sales of this book without a front cover may be unauthorized. If this book is coverless, it may have been reported to the publisher as “unsold and destroyed” and neither the author nor the publisher may have received payment for it.

  Datura Books and the Datura Books icon are registered trademarks of Watkins Media Ltd.

  ISBN 978 1 91552 353 2

  Ebook ISBN 978 1 91552 354 9

  Printed and bound in the United Kingdom by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon CR0 4YY

  The manufacturer’s authorised representative in the EU for product safety is eucomply OÜ - Pärnu mnt 139b-14, 11317 Tallinn, Estonia, hello@eucompliancepartner.com; www.eucompliancepartner.com

  9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To K, D, J & S

  “They considered the great house as in some degree their own; their pride was bound up in it, and their life was complete within the square of its walls.”

  V. Sackville-West, The Edwardians

  “Quoth the Raven ‘Nevermore’.”

  The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe

  VICTIMS, SUSPECTS & INNOCENTS

  Charlotte Blood Journalist at The Comet. Gossip columnist who writes under the pen name Nosferatu

  Mrs C Her landlady and author of the “Burnt Rose” series of books

  J H Fulman Editor-in-chief at The Comet

  Charles Ravenswick Murdered heir to the Ravenswick fortune

  Rachel Ravenswick His widow

  Edward Ravenswick Younger brother to Charles and now the heir

  Elizabeth Ravenswick Wife of Edward Ravenswick

  Celeste Ravenswick Young daughter of Edward and Elizabeth Ravenswick

  Mary Ravenswick Youngest sibling of Charles and Edward Ravenswick

  Lord Melhuish Ravenswick Press magnate. Owner of The Sunday Review. Head of the Ravenswick family. Incapacitated and left bedridden by a series of strokes

  Lady Violet Ravenswick His wife

  George Jeffers The gardener

  Patrick Bartram The raven master

  Heskins The butler

  Mrs Thornycroft The housekeeper

  Nicodemus Bligh A spiritualist

  Philip Pembroke A solicitor

  Nanny Austin The family’s nanny

  Nurse Sidmouth The nurse who attends to Lord Ravenswick

  Contents

  1

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  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

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  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

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  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  Author’s note

  Acknowledgements

  “Miss Blood, you can go in now.” The voice was flat, disinterested. The sound of chattering typewriters drowned out any answer.

  The tall young woman walked with overkeen steps, her dark, bobbed hair bounced in time at the edges of her face with metronome perfection. Everything about Charlotte Blood was synchronised.

  The secretary gave her one knowing look and then dismissed her like all the other people she had cast off through that frosted door. Charlotte let her eyes travel along each painted letter in turn as she walked past. Mr J H Fulman, the dull gold announced. Editor-in-chief at The Comet. She took a deep breath and her mind pulled up a quick image of a replete fat man sitting back in a large chair – a full man. It was not too far from the truth.

  The room smelt like the warm remains of a meal, a yeasty, salt aftertaste on the lazy air. He was a sweaty man, even then, in the grip of a brisk winter. There was always a fan going in his office, just recirculating his heavy breath and everything he said. He said a lot.

  This man was made of words. He produced them on vast conveyor belts and breathed them out constantly like the great chimney on top of a factory. He sat behind the desk, spreading himself out along one whole side of it, a grey-skinned growth emerging from the wood. He was all layers – a mound of face, a roll of jowl drifting down to a bulging neck, then the turn of his chest slipping over the top of the enormous dome of his belly. He leaned back to accommodate it all. He was broad and undulating in the off-green shirt, his own land mass with rolling pastures and hills.

  “Blood.” He said it like he could taste it.

  “Sir.” She remained standing with her long arms held back and her chin pointed upwards, parade-ground ready. She squeezed her hands together so tight the knuckles stretched white.

  He glanced up at her, already disappointed. There was a moment of assessment. Then he spoke as if he was delivering an unwelcome diagnosis, an unpleasant detail that had to be dealt with swiftly, surgically. “I need you to go to Dartmoor.”

  “Dartmoor?” She frowned.

  “It’s a moor. In Devon.”

  She didn’t flicker.

  “Hound of the Baskervilles? Sherlock Holmes?” he offered slowly. “Never mind. Someone will point the way.”

  “I am aware of its location, sir.”

  He stared at her before looking back to his desk, littered with random papers as if he’d just thrown them up in the air and let them land in a tickertape parade. He picked up one file. It curled at the edges and had enough different stains and fingerprints to imply this had passed through a lot of hands. He skimmed it a little way across the desk. “I want you to go to Ravenswick Abbey. You’re going undercover.”

  Her face visibly lit. “In disguise?”

  He drew his fleshy eyelids closer together until all that was left of his eyes were two black slits with furious eyebrows pushing them down. “I don’t want any of your hooey,” he growled. “Charles Ravenswick was shot and killed almost a year ago on New Year’s Eve. No one’s been fingered for it yet.”

  “I know. I remember.” She sounded scandalised. “So utterly awful.”

  Fulman let his large head fall to the side and gave a doubtful look.

  His strained breath whistled down his nose. This was a man for whom breathing didn’t seem to come naturally. “Listen, Blood, get down there and find out what’s going on.”

  “He was shot.”

  “Yes, but by who? That’s what I want you to discover.” Fulman tapped his pen repeatedly.

  “Were the police called?”

  “Yes, the police were called, Blood! A man was killed. In a lift. No one could have got in or out. Lights went. It was someone in that lift but no one knows who did it.”

  “Aha! A locked-lift mystery.” She laughed a little before adding, “Or perhaps… if the crime is impossible to solve…” She saw his unmoving face and cut it short.

  Fulman paused and his thick, stony jaw fell to reveal the dark, wet inside of his mouth. He took another laboured breath.

  “Charles Ravenswick was the eldest son of Lord Ravenswick, who also happens to be the millionaire owner of The Sunday Review. They’re not touching it, of course. It could be the story of the year! And, what’s more, some strange things have started coming out of Ravenswick Abbey.”

  “Sounds just too odd.”

  “Blood, this is not one of your ridiculous escapades! If you can’t take this seriously…”

  “I can! I can!” She felt the floor beneath the thin sole of her shoe. She knew how silly and frivolous she appeared to men like this. It was useful sometimes, but she could be serious alright, if it was going to pay. “See!” She gave him a studious look, fixing him with those forget-me-not eyes.

  He looked bewildered for a moment, his face wrinkled with irritated confusion. “Blood, manuscripts and rare volumes have started appearing on the market from Ravenswick Abbey’s library, and there’s a whisper that they are harbouring something very special indeed there. Nobody knew about most of these books. They thought they were either lost or mythical, or some such nonsense, but now they’re appearing with a distinct regularity. Lots of spiritual, ancient pseudo-religious texts… that kind of rubbish and drivel. You’ll know all about it. Anyway, there’s a man.”

  “A man?”

  “Yes, a man. Nicodemus Bligh.” He pronounced the name as if he was introducing a notorious devil. “A mystic or shaman, something like that. He started out as Lady Ravenswick’s spiritual guide, but he’s been digging through the library, says he’s made these discoveries and there’s something mind-blowing to come. I want you to go and find out what’s going on at Ravenswick Abbey, who shot Charles Ravenswick and what they’ve got in that library that’s so special. So, you’re going undercover –”

  She took a thoughtful breath and looked pensive. “A librarian or ancient spiritual text expert…”

  “– as an ornithologist.”

  “Right.”

  He searched for a sign of recognition. “A bird watcher, Blood. Our parent group has a small publication – The Ornithologist’s Weekly, Monthly, whatever. You are going to be one of its journalists. No one reads it except sad old men with too much time on their hands.”

  “Is it good?”

  He closed his eyes slowly. “Blood.” He ground out the word through clenched jaws.

  “I’m just forming a picture. What kind of tone am I aiming for? Academic journal or intrigued amateur? Am I specialising in exotic birds of paradise or common garden sparrows?”

  “Ravens.” He nodded at the folder. “The family are very proud of their ravens and keep them in some sort of fabulous aviary. They wouldn’t usually let press anywhere near the place. They know the game too well. But they’ve agreed to let a bird expert in to interview the raven master. They love the bloody birds. It’s the one little crack in their wall and we’re in.”

  “I don’t know anything about birds. I’m not a bird expert.”

  “You just need to look like one.”

  “What does one look like?”

  He paused, analysing her. “I don’t know, Blood. But these are your kind of people.”

  “My kind of people?”

  “Toffs.”

  Her mouth tightened.

  He raised one of those thick eyebrows, taunting her. “Nosferatu would definitely want to sniff around that mansion, wouldn’t she?” His mouth spread into a vulgar smile.

  She stiffened. “I suppose she might.”

  “Surely you don’t want to spend the rest of your life trawling nightclubs and bars, sucking up gossip about rich people?”

  She felt herself flush. Not many people outside this room knew the true identity of Nosferatu, The Comet’s salacious gossip columnist, but if they did, they certainly wouldn’t let Charlotte party with them anymore. Or maybe they would. There were definitely more than a few of her “friends” who read the column with delighted horror, desperate to find out if their nightly antics had been included.

  Charlotte consoled herself with the idea that she was just feeding on the appetite for scandal. Readers were desperate to know how the elusive upper classes spent their money, lavishing their exotic affections on one another in the riot of London parties and myriad country-house weekends, as they’d become known. And she was perfectly placed in their set to drain them of their secrets and lay the scandal bare for the public to feast on the next morning. Sometimes she even caught the scent of her victim’s enjoyment the next day when they read her column, not knowing the author was right in front of them. But Charlotte had no wish to go on with this grubby game forever. It barely paid the rent, for a start. She needed more, and here it was – death in a dirty folder. She could not waste this chance.

  Fulman wiped a flabby hand down his greasy face. “This is serious, Blood. A man is dead, and they’re not getting any closer to finding his killer. Rasputin’s taken over at the Abbey and they’re selling rare books like penny dreadfuls. I want you to get in there and find out what’s going on.”

  She opened her mouth to speak but he held up his finger. Charlotte’s lips remained parted, waiting for the word to arrive. His eyes sharpened into the look of a man who could see the headlines being typed out in front of him. “This could be the scoop of the decade. This is real news, not inane back-page gossip. I wouldn’t usually let someone as flimsy as you –”

  “Flimsy? I covered the midnight treasure hunt round London!”

  There wasn’t even a trace of acknowledgement on Fulman.

  “Chips Caruthers and Boy Jespers? Climbing Anteros?”

  “Eros, surely?”

  “Actually, Anteros.” She gave a coy smile. “Sir.”

  His frustration was growing. “Look, you’re not the kind of girl I’d usually want within a country mile of a big story but you can get close to these sorts of monied people. You know them. Know their cut. This is a big opportunity for you, Blood, to prove yourself. Make a name for yourself. A real name, not some sharp-toothed joke.” He picked up a copy of a paper and, with a stubby finger, pointed to the Nosferatu column. “Time to break out of ‘who got slaughtered at the Embassy then raced a Rolls round London before making a splash at a pool party in Trafalgar Square’!”

  “Fruity Montague, and it was really the Kit-Cat but they threatened to sue.”

  Fulman glared at her over the top of the paper, the finger still hovering mid-air. His face gathered in the middle, creating fresh folds. He nodded to the folder. “It’s all in there. Everything you need to know and a train ticket. They’re sending a driver for you at the other end.”

 

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