A Second Chance for Murder (16 page)

Thora shut her eyes, not wanting to look into Brightington’s mad, fevered face.

Outside, the storm clouds rumbled and the wind whistled through the cracks in the boathouse walls, its shrill sound as if calling her name. Inside, trapped beneath Brightington’s heavy body, Thora thrashed her head from side-to-side avoiding his slobbery kisses. She had been so determined to find Ivey’s killer, never imagining it would cause her to share the same fate as her dear friend. Tears managed to escape her tightly shut eyes as Thora prayed,
Oh dear Lord, let it be quick!

Suddenly Brightington’s crushing weight was lifted and she heard someone utter a curse. Then she heard the sound of fist hitting flesh and bone, followed by the noises of a scuffle, of things breaking and crashing. The wind called her name. Only this time clearly stronger. No, it wasn’t the wind! Her eyes sprang open. The face above her wasn’t Brightington’s. It was Nyle! In all her life, she had never been happier to her brother’s face.

With her brother’s help, she sat up. She was so thankful to see him that she started to cry and then couldn’t bring herself to stop. Nyle gathered her into his arms and rocked her. “Thank God, Thora. Thank God we found you in time.”

Thora’s mind registered the word “we.” Peeking over her brother’s shoulder, she saw Garren, his face red with a frightening fury, using his fists to pound Marquis Brightington’s face until the man, bleeding from his nose and the corner of his mouth, finally collapsed.

Garren turned and with lighting quickness knelt beside her and Nyle. “Thora, are you all right?”

Thora clung to her brother. Still sobbing and unable to speak, she nodded. Draining her tears onto Nyle’s shoulder, she gave a ruffled sigh before at last she was able to form the words she wanted to say. “Mr. Greenstreet . . . is he? Oh goodness, I didn’t mean to hurt him, but he was following me and I thought he was the killer! Oh please, tell me he’s still alive,” she stammered shakily.

Garren walked over to an awakening Mason and examined his friend. From over his shoulder, he shouted, “He’s got a lump the size of a walnut and he’s going to have a hell of a headache, but he’ll be fine.”

“Oh thank God,” Thora said, relieved. “Marquis Brightington is the murderer. Well, one of the murderers. He killed Mercer and he was going to kill me. He wrote a note that I thought was from Lord Huntscliff, asking me to meet him in the boathouse. But it was Viscount Simon-North who killed Ivey. He was the one Ivey went into the garden to meet. Nyle, Garren, we have to go to the village and find Viscount Simon-North. We just can’t let him get away.”

Nyle placed a kiss on the top of his sister’s head. “He’s already in custody. Do you think you can walk?” he asked, ignoring her questioning eyes. Even though it was wet from the storm outside, he removed his jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders, then helped her to her feet.

As suddenly as it started, the storm ended. Not wanting to spend another moment inside the boathouse, Thora stepped outside. The rain had sweetened the air and it smelled clean and fresh. Thora inhaled deeply, grateful that she was still able to continue to do so, that she had been saved and that her quest to find Ivey’s killer was over. Ivey could now lie in peace.

Inside, Garren helped a groggy Mason to his feet. Tucking his shoulder under the man’s arm to support him, he half carried his colleague out of the boathouse while Nyle lifted Marquis Brightington by the scuff of his neck and shoved him out the door.

What a sorry sight they must have looked to Inspector Graham who was waiting with a constable on the front steps of the manor. Garren and Nyle were soaked to the skin, Thora, her skirts covered with dust and dirt from the boathouse floor, was wrapped in her brother’s wet jacket to hide the torn sleeve of her gown, and a dazed Mason was being helped along by Garren. A bloody-faced Marquis Brightington was pushed forward by Lord Somerville.

The inspector motioned for his constable to help Garren with the unsteady Mason before saying, “My desk sergeant told me that you have one of my constables here, Lord Somerville, along with the murderer of Miss Ivey Sharling. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” Nyle answered. Then, giving Marquis Brightington one last, hard shove toward the inspector, he added, “And here’s the other murderer. The one who killed Mercer, a loyal servant of mine, and who only moments ago attempted to take my sister’s life.”

As Brightington stumbled forward and was caught and steadied by the inspector, Lord Langless came bursting out of the manor and in his usual booming voice demanded, “Will someone tell me just what is going on?”

“We’ll tell you everything, Lord Langless, but first let me get Mr. Mason Greenstreet, an investigator friend of mine, inside,” Garren said as the older man with a perplexed look mouthed the word “investigator.”

When they entered the main hall, the guests and servants flocked around them. The ladies gasped at the sight of the bloodied Marquis Calder Brightington entering with Inspector Graham and Lord Somerville. Their shock grew upon seeing Lord Huntscliff and a constable carrying his injured manservant, Mason, and at Lady Thora, her hair in disarray and her face tear-stained and draped in her brother’s rain-streaked jacket.

Suddenly everyone started to talk at once until Nyle held up his hand. “If everyone would go into the drawing room and wait. Lord Huntscliff, Thora, and I will join you as soon as we take the injured Mr. Greenstreet upstairs to lie down and change out of our wet clothes.” Turning to the Inspector, Nyle suggested he take Brightington into the study to join his murderous cohort. Then he took Thora’s arm and helped her up the stairs. They were followed by the young maid Molly, who was anxious to assist her mistress and perhaps be privy to some news.

Much to their disappointment, Lady Langless ordered her three youngest daughters upstairs to their rooms, deeming they had seen far too much already. She had the correct premonition that things were soon going get even more shocking.

Garren, with the constable’s assistance, carried Mason upstairs to an empty bedroom. After easing his injured colleague into to the bed, he thanked the constable and told the young man that it might be best if he report back to the inspector.

“I’ll send for the doctor,” Nyle said.

Hearing Lord Somerville’s words, Mason’s eyes flew open. “No need, Lord Somerville. I’m fine. Had worse in my day.” Then, touching the lump on his head, he moaned, “Who hit me? Brightington?”

For a moment, Nyle hesitated. “It wasn’t Brightington. It was my sister who struck you.” Seeing the man’s shock, he quickly went on to explain. “She thought you were the murderer. Too late she realized her mistake. Knowing Thora as I do, she’ll be here shortly to express her apologies.” Looking at the man’s head and the large lump crusted with dry blood, he said, “I’d still feel better if the village doctor took a look at you.”

When Mason adamantly refused to have a doctor sent for, Nyle yielded. “Well, if you won’t let me send for a doctor, please lie back and rest. I’ll have one of the maids bring up a cold cloth for your head and some brandy.”

“Don’t bother, my lord,” Mason started, then abruptly stopped at the mention of brandy. “Well, if you insist.”

Garren and Nyle both had trouble holding back a grin. The two men went to their rooms to change out of their wet clothes and returned a few minutes later to fill Mason in on what happened at the boathouse and in the village.

In her room and with Molly’s aid, Thora quickly removed her ripped and dirt-covered gown.

As Molly helped her out of the corset, the girl gasped. “Oh, miss, you got bruises on you.”

Thora surveyed herself in her standing mirror and saw the ugly marks Brightington’s rough handling had left. “That settles it, Molly,” Thora said. “I’m not putting a corset back on.”

After a quick wash and letting Molly brush her hair and tie it back with a pink ribbon, she donned a soft, comfortable robe over her undergarments and slipped her feet into her slippers. She then told Molly go downstairs and tell the parlor maid to serve tea and sandwiches to the guests in the drawing room. With all the excitement, she wondered if anyone had eaten. Thora left her room to see how Mason Greenstreet was faring. Nyle and Garren were already in the room standing beside the man’s bed. Seeing her, they both turned and Nyle motioned her to come closer.

“How is he?” she asked in a low voice fit for a sickroom.

“See for yourself,” Garren said, stepping aside to reveal Mason comfortably propped up on pillows holding a glass of brandy in his hand.

Thora sat down gently on the bed. “Oh, please forgive me, my dear, Mr. Greenstreet,” Thora pleaded, taking his hand in hers. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I had no idea it was you who had followed me into the boathouse. I thought you might be the murderer.”

Mason started to speak, but Thora hushed him by placing the tips of her fingers over his lips. “Don’t worry, I’m going to look after you. I’m going to personally see that you mend no matter how long it takes.”

“Oh, Lady Thora, I couldn’t hope for more able hands,” Mason said, his face beaming and drawing a scowl from his tall colleague.

“We better join Inspector Graham downstairs. I’m sure he’s anxious to hear our story and by now his patience must be wearing thin,” Garren said.

Offering his arm to Thora, they left Mason sipping his brandy and went downstairs to join the others in the drawing room.

Seeing that a tea tray had been set up on one of the tables, Nyle poured a cup and handled it to Thora with a brotherly smile. He took a moment before saying, “I’m sure everyone would like an explanation of what transpired today. Since Lord Huntscliff was the key instrument in solving the crimes, I’ll let him explain.” Nyle took a seat next to Thora.

All eyes turned to Garren as he moved to the center of the room.

“As you all know, not so long ago a murder was committed here, the murder of a young woman. It was assumed to be committed by a vagrant or a passing gypsy. Then there was the murder of Mercer, Lord Somerville’s manservant, which was mistakenly considered an accident. And lastly the death of Miss Cecilia Boothwell, who was found lying in Lord Langless’s water pond after supposedly falling and striking her head against one of the pond’s stone statues.”

Miffed by Lord Huntscliff’s statement that two of the deaths mentioned were misjudged by the authorities, Inspector Graham huffed, “But two of those deaths you just mentioned were ruled accidental. Are you saying the authorities’ findings were wrong?”

“Wrong? No, let’s say misled,” Garren replied in an attempt to soothe the inspector’s ruffled feathers. “But let’s start at the beginning. When my friend Lord Somerville visited me in London and told me of Ivey Sharling’s murder, something didn’t seem right. It seemed odd to me that a young woman would go out into the garden alone at night. I wondered why she would do such a thing. I came to the same conclusion as Lady Thora,” he said, glancing at Thora, whom he thought looked simply adorable cuddled in her pink robe with a pink ribbon holding back her dark tresses. “She planned to meet someone, someone she knew, someone for whom she held an attraction, and someone who, along with the rest of you, was a guest in this house.”

His last statement caused murmurs to pass among the guests. Garren waited for the room to quiet before he continued.

Like everyone else in the room, Thora’s gaze was on Garren. He was a commanding figure and spoke with authority. He had the look of a ship’s captain who had just won a fierce battle with his thick, slightly damp chestnut hair slicked back and his face showing the shadow of a beard. She also noticed the bruises on his knuckles obtained through his encounter with the evil Marquis Brightington. His deep voice was powerful, capturing the group’s attention.

“When Lady Thora invited guests to the manor, her brother was concerned and asked me to help him safeguard his guests. I agreed and brought along a friend, a private investigator, Mason Greenstreet, who posed as my manservant. It was my belief that Ivey Sharling went out into the garden to meet Viscount Radley Simon-North and instead of an innocent stolen kiss in the moonlight, she was raped and murdered.”

“Hold on now,” Inspector Graham said, springing to his feet. “I investigated that murder myself and Viscount Simon-North had an alibi. He was in the billiards room with another guest—” The inspector halted his words for a moment while he rubbed his brow. Then his eyes brightened as he remembered. “Marquis Brightington!”

“Exactly, Inspector! Honor among thieves, so to speak.” Seeing the blank look on the police official’s face, Garren went on to explain. “Who better to confirm a murderer’s alibi than another murderer?”

“If I understand you correctly, Lord Huntscliff,” Sandler Leedworthy said, “you’re saying that Viscount Simon-North was the one who killed Ivey and that Marquis Brightington covered for him because he himself was a murderer. But before Ivey, there weren’t any murders, so who did Brightington kill?”

“A good question,” Garren said. “For that, we have to go back a few years. With the help of a police official friend, I was able to review the case files of several unsolved murders similar to Miss Sharling’s and discovered that over the years there have been a number of murders in various parts of the surrounding countryside: a housemaid in Devin, a pretty young governess in Hampshire, a local schoolteacher in Cornwall, and the daughter of a police constable in Bristol. I started to wonder if there was a connection and there was. It came to my attention that four guests of Lord Somerville who were present the night of Ivey Sharling’s murder were all in the vicinity of each murder and that two of the men always seemed to have an alibi confirmed by the other. Those two men were Viscount Simon-North and Marquis Brightington. From the first day I met Marquis Brightington and Viscount Simon-North, I perceived that both men were consumed with an enthusiasm for gambling, making a sport of the most common situations.”

“Like the fishing contest,” Lord Flemington interjected. “It was Viscount Simon-North who suggested it.”

“Precisely,” Garren confirmed. “But they had a much more deadly game to play. Each tried to be more cunning, more daring, venturing to take greater risks. They began their deadly spree of murders with a parlor maid, a person of low station, a person who would hardly be missed, and then worked their way upward to women of higher status. I’m sure Viscount Simon-North was proud of himself for having killed Ivey under the noses of a houseful of notable guests.”