Historical Crime Fiction Tour & Giveaway: The Tender Herb: A Murder in Mughal India by Lexie Conyngham 9/1/14 – 9/15/14

Virtual Book Tour Dates: 9/1/14 – 9/15/14
Genres: Historical Crime Fiction, Scottish, Georgian, Early 19^th. Century
Tour Promo Price: $.99

Blurb:

1812 – Recovering in Naples from the intrigues of Scottish politics, Charles Murray is drawn further afield by urgent news of an old servant in distant Mughal India. Going to the aid of one woman, he finds another and is pursued by a third. But that is no recipe for an easy life, and with imperial spies on the streets of Delhi, Murray must investigate the murder that brought him to the East, and redeem himself in his own eyes.

The Tender Herb is the sixth in the Murray of Letho series.

Excerpt:

Mary was in trouble.

The words, echoing like gunshots, had been bouncing around Henry Robbins’ head since the letter had arrived in Edinburgh – well, since it had reached him in Queen Street, a few days later. Mary was in trouble, and everything since had been a scramble, a rush, as near a panic as Robbins ever came, to think of and prepare for the best way of extracting her.

Part of the problem, even with hurrying, was that the letter had taken ten months to arrive. That was not a bad time for letters from inland India, but it still mocked his urgency. Then, even when the ship had arrived in Leith, he had not been there to collect the letter, had not even been expecting it. Patie, the groom next door, had happened to be at Leith waiting for a horse and had picked up the letter from a shilpit manservant who was trying to see the contents against a watery sun. He had delivered it triumphantly to Robbins and had then hung around for nearly an hour, clearly wearing to find out what was in it. Robbins, however, was impervious to Patie’s hint-dropping blather, and Patie eventually left unrewarded, except by a tankard of very good ale.

Robbins did not touch the ale. Instead, he waited until he had heard the mews gate close behind Patie, and then, alone in the big blue-green kitchen, he broke the seal and drew a breath.

Mary’s handwriting, as sharp and black as her extraordinary triangular eyebrows, strode forcefully across the cover, undeterred by whatever horrors the letter had seen on its travels through the Presidencies of the Honourable East India Company. She had left Edinburgh for India with her new husband, Aeneas Maclachlan, in the autumn of 1810, so this must have been written almost as soon as she had arrived. Robbins, losing in the one woman a fellow servant and a friend, had done his best to forget all about her: he had not expected a correspondence. Now that it was here, he was almost reluctant to open it.

Since he had, and had read the determined lines inside, he had scarcely paused to eat or sleep. In the course of a day or two, he had visited Simpson, his master’s man of business; he had written to his master’s estate in Letho to summon a servant to replace him in the Edinburgh house, and he had called on his master’s oldest friend in the Old Town, seeking information and advice, and receiving it. Finally, he walked down the hill to Leith, and purchased himself a passage – not to India, but to Italy. Then he went back to Queen Street, to pack.

II
‘I don’t care if you have to turn Hindoo, Daniel: you’ll still marry the girl.’

Daniel, his usual confidence somewhat diminished in the face of his master’s anger, stood looking sheepish in a pool of hot July sunlight. Murray had opened one of the tall wooden shutters, hoping for a breath of air to drift in from the rose-pink Neapolitan piazza, but even in his shirtsleeves he felt stifled. Daniel was wearing his usual thick coat and, irritatingly, did not even seem to be sweating. Daniel had adapted to the Neapolitan life very well – perhaps a little too well, to judge by the present situation.

‘When is the child due?’ Murray asked reluctantly.

‘In October, she reckons, sir.’

‘Then you haven’t much time, have you? You’d better find an accommodating priest.’ Murray rose and stalked over to the window, wishing Daniel had announced his unplanned breeding in a colder season. He stood with his back to the hot light, and studied his manservant. The room about them was solid, spare and a little severe, old white walls, stone floor and wooden furniture anciently dark. Daniel was a contrast, though: young, cheerful and daft. The trouble was – well, there were several troubles, for the girl so inconveniently expecting Daniel’s child was also Murray’s cook – the trouble was that you could not help liking Daniel. He was even becoming quite a competent servant, and given a few decades might make a reasonable husband and father. ‘Do you love the girl?’ he asked in the end.

He half-expected Daniel to shrug, to look bewildered as he searched for some meaning in Murray’s words, but instead an expression of determination came over his healthy face.

‘I do, sir,’ he announced. Murray nodded.

‘Then try Father Piero at Santa Croce – I hear he is a kindly man. You’d better go now, Daniel. Wait – is the girl keeping well?’

‘Aye, sir,’ Daniel beamed suddenly. ‘She’s blooming like – like a morning glory!’

‘My, Daniel,’ Murray remarked drily. ‘Off you go before you start writing poetry.’ He turned back to the window, and his sharp intake of breath stopped Daniel in his tracks.

‘What’s the matter, sir?’

‘You’ll never believe who’s just appeared in the street,’ said Murray, a worried frown on his face. Daniel’s eyebrows asked the question for him. ‘It’s Robbins,’ announced Murray, ‘unless I’m very much mistaken, it’s Henry Robbins.’

Buy Links:

Coming Soon!

About The Author:

Lexie Conyngham is a historian living in North-East Scotland and has been writing stories since she knew people did. When she can escape from teaching, she divides her time between writing, gardening and knitting.

Author Links:

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Family Ties

I come from a large family, five siblings total. This experience with siblings has served me well in the Cotillion Ball Series, which features a well-to-do family with nine children, living in New York in the 1850s. As each child finds their one true love, marries and heads off to create their own family, the big house in New York gets more and more lonely. In The Duplicitous Debutante, the mother of this large brood, Charlotte Fitzpatrick, takes time to lament her children leaving home.

I have a monumental event coming up in late September. My three sisters, my brother and I will be all together in the same place for the first time in fourteen years. In this age of fast cars and faster airplanes, our lives prevent us from getting together more frequently than this.

Which led me to wonder just how often the Fitzpatrick family would manage to reunite, if ever. After all, two of the children are in St. Louis, one is on a military base, one lives in the Bronx, another rides for the Pony Express. My guess is, even with the railroads that were being built across the country during the decade of the 1850s, it would be hard, if not impossible, for all of Charlotte’s brood to assemble under the same roof again. 

Here’s an exclusive excerpt from The Duplicitous Debutante, where Charlotte talks about her empty house.

“Mother, I need your assistance,” Rosemary proclaimed as she slid into a seat in the parlor later in the day. Her mother turned from the window where she was staring out at the traffic on the streets. Rosemary was surprised to see tears on her mother’s cheeks.

“Of course, dear.” Charlotte took a seat beside her daughter, quickly scrubbing all vestiges of dampness from her face. “What is it you need?”

“Forget about me. Whatever is wrong with you? Why are you crying?” Rosemary wrapped her arms around her mother, inhaling her familiar scent.

Charlotte ran a hand over her daughter’s hair. “Because I’m a silly old woman, that’s why. My children are leaving the nest one at a time.”

“Isn’t it what you wished for? My goodness, Mother, it’s been your life’s mission to see to it all your children find their proper mates and marry.”

“Yes, of course it is. I adore all my children’s choices for husbands and wives. But I do so miss the days when we were all here and the house was stuffed with small children.”

“But you have grandchildren now to keep you busy.”

“Ah, yes, the grandchildren. But they go home at the end of the day, leaving your father and me to clank around this big empty house by ourselves. But enough of me being sorry for myself. What is it you need?”

Rosemary smiled slightly. “I’m afraid I’m going to make matters worse, if you’re lamenting your children leaving home.”

Buy Link: http://amzn.to/1sGJQbq

Giveaway:

Three lucky winners will win Death in a Scarlet Gown, first in the Murray of Letho series, signed by the author. Open internationally 

. Enter at Goodreads by clicking here.