A Second Chance for Murder (5 page)

At this hour, the house lamps were turned down and their faint light formed long, eerie shadows that often seemed to move. Above on the landing a floorboard creaked, but the elderly servant paid it no mind. Like him, the manor had its share of cranky bones.

At last, he thought as he climbed the stairs, one painful step after another, he would have his explanation. The gentleman had promised to clarify what had plagued him long after that awful night and his troubled mind would be at rest. He was nearing the top now. Oddly, the upper landing seemed darker than usual.

Mercer muttered a curse. His eyes were getting worse. He was just about to take a final step that would bring him onto the landing of the upper floor when a dark figure rushed toward him. Rough hands gripped his shoulders, and Mercer instantly realized his mistake.

A quick, hard shove sent him backward down the staircase. He gave out a desperate yell as he frantically reached out for something, anything, to break his fall, but all that filled his grasping hands was air. Downward, he plummeted.

Death came to Mercer halfway down the staircase when his neck snapped like a dry twig.

Void of life, Mercer’s body tumbled further, shattering several more frail bones and teeth until it came to rest sprawled across the bottom steps in a mass of unnaturally twisted limbs.

Chapter 4

It was almost as if nature was taking part in mourning Mercer the following day. Dark, threatening clouds shrouded the manor, adding to the gloom that permeated inside. Authorities quickly concluded that the servant’s death was an accident. The man was old, the staircase dark, and the bruises he’d sustained were most likely caused by the fall. The local constable asked a few routine questions of the guests and the servants and then ordered Mercer’s broken body to be removed and taken to the morgue. After having a consoling talk with a shaken staff, and since Mercer had no immediate family that he knew of, Lord Somerville, together with the vicar and his wife, left for the village to arrange for a decent funeral for his faithful servant.

The shock of another death at the manor had everyone solemn-faced and speaking in hushed tones.

Poor Mercer, Thora thought, what a sad end to someone so loyal.

The pheasant hunt was naturally cancelled. After a cold lunch, Lord and Lady Langless and their daughters remained in their rooms, as did the Boothwells. Lord Huntscliff was somewhere about.

Thora remembered seeing him earlier heading toward the back of the house. Lauryn and her mother, Lady Mayfield, having noticed how little Thora had eaten during lunch, stayed downstairs and insisted she have a cup of tea and some lightly buttered toast. When she had taken a few bites of toast and drained her cup, and only after promising the women that she would rest before dinner, the two Mayfield ladies retreated to their rooms.

For an early summer’s day, the house seemed as cold as autumn. Aimlessly, Thora walked the rooms downstairs until she found herself entering the game room where a few of the men had gathered. Seeing her enter, the men started to rise, but she motioned them to stay seated. Sitting together playing cards were Viscount Simon-North and Marquis Calder Brightington.

Viscount Simon-North’s blue eyes offered her solace and she bowed her head slightly in acceptance. Looking around the room, she spotted Sandler Leedworthy in a corner chair by the window reading, his bad eyesight forcing him to hold the open book close, shielding his face.

Someone was missing.

Sensing that she was about to query as to Lord Flemington’s whereabouts, Marquis Brightington murmured something about Flemington needing to flex his muscles and that he had gone out for a brisk walk. He also added that Lord Huntscliff was somewhere about, most likely with Flemington. Excusing herself, Thora left the game room then wandered about the deafeningly silent house wondering if the coroner’s determination of accidental death was accurate. Weary, she went to her room thinking the only sufficient thing to happen this afternoon was that Lord Huntscliff’s manservant had arrived from London.

The heel end of a boot sailed across the room narrowly missing Garren’s head and was followed by a voice filled with outrage. “You can put on your own damn boots, Huntscliff!”

Grinning, Garren bent from his towering height to pick up his boot and, with a mirthful gleam in his eye, reprimanded, “Now, Mason, is that any way for a valet to address his master?”

Mason Greenstreet’s eyes narrowed, fury drawing the corners of his mouth downward. “Master! Now look here, I don’t know how you ever convinced me to take on this assignment. Of all the undercover tasks I’ve had to endure for you, this has to be the most belittling. A valet!” Mason grimaced, as if he had just sucked on a lemon.

“You never know when you might need a second career, Mason. As a detective, your aim was a bit off just now,” Garren teased while he continued dressing for dinner.

Speaking through clenched teeth Mason hissed, “If I meant to hit you, you’d be sporting a lump on that thick noggin of yours.”

Though Garren chuckled, he had no doubt about the validity of his colleague’s words. They had worked together before and he had learned to rely on more than just the man’s keen aim. Besides being an excellent marksman, the ex-constable of four and forty years had ears that could almost hear through walls, the stealth of a cat, and could slip a ten-pound note out of a man’s wallet more skillfully than a St. Giles Street pickpocket. Mason had assisted Garren on many cases, but donning the guise of a manservant was a new experience for him. Garren had a difficult time hiding his amusement as Mason grumbled profanities while tugging at the starchy collar of his shirt. But he was here for a reason, Garren reminded himself, and in less than an hour he had brought Mason up-to-date.

“Four suspects. Who is the most likely in your opinion, Huntscliff?”

Huntscliff’s fingers ran along his strong jawline before he spoke. “It’s too early to offer one but if I had to choose, I would say Lord Flemington. He paints a conflicting picture with his rough exterior and inward appearance of being a most kind and considerate man.”

“He’s the pugilist. A strong man with strong hands. Easy for him to strangle a young woman,” Mason remarked.

“Or shove an old man down a flight of stairs,” Garren retorted.

“So you don’t think Lord Somerville’s man . . . this Mercer’s death was an accident?”

“I’m certain it wasn’t. That’s why I need you here. Servants love to gossip. I tried to talk to them this morning but their lips were sealed tighter than a miser’s purse. I’m hoping you, as my servant,” Garren explained, ignoring Mason’s frown, “will have better luck. Last night, I happened to see Mercer talking to a man just before I retired. The man’s face was hidden. Try to find out who he talked to and see what you can learn about the night that Lady Ivey Sharing was killed. Find out if they noticed a change in him after he found the young girl’s body.”

Garren rubbed his jaw as he always did when he was contemplating, a clear signal to Mason that his duty list had yet another task. He waited.

“One more thing,” Garren said confirming Mason’s inkling. “Try to keep an eye on Miss Thora Mannington. She doesn’t know the real reason I’m here, and I’d like to keep it that way. She fancies herself a bit of a detective. One slip, and she could very well find herself in trouble.”

Suddenly Mason’s mood brightened. “Now that’s one aspect of this case about which I’ll have no complaints. She’s quite a looker. Has you in a spin, doesn’t she, Huntscliff?” he asked as he headed toward the door to start snooping among the kitchen help.

Garren’s eyes widened. Was he that transparent? “Thora is my friend’s sister. Stunning, yes, but definitely off-limits.”

“Thora, is it?” Mason quipped, seeing that his colleague had grown defensive. “And how does the lady feel—?”

Mason’s words were abruptly cut short as it was his turn to dodge a boot launched in his direction. Laughing harder than he had in years, he left the room to begin his assignment.

Dinner that evening proved a somber affair. Even Lord Langless contained his thunderous voice to a tolerable level. Few guests remained after dinner, most opting to retire early and put an end to the depressing day. Thora was about to go upstairs when she overheard Nyle ask Lord Huntscliff in hushed tones to join him in the library for a nightcap. Nyle never took a nightcap. And there was a strange look about him. What was he up to? More so, what were they up to? She had to find out.

Announcing that she was going to retire, Thora left the dining room. Satisfied that no one was in the main hall, she lifted her skirts high above her ankles and raced upstairs, but instead of going to her room, she hid in a shadowy alcove near the library and waited. A short time later, she heard Nyle and Lord Huntscliff coming upstairs and saw them enter the library. When the door shut behind them, Thora softly tiptoed up to the closed door and pressed her ear to the wooden barrier, straining to hear the conversation on the other side.

Inside the library, the two men sat down. Garren stretched his long, muscular legs out before him, declining the brandy that Nyle offered, and immediately began to discuss the case. Mercer’s death had kept Nyle busy and this was the first time the two had the opportunity to talk privately since the discovery of the body. He told Nyle about the not-too-happy Mason Greenstreet’s true identity and then revealed, “Last night I saw Mercer talking to someone. I wasn’t able to see who he was speaking to, but I do know it was a man, and I’m certain that whatever was said led to his death.”

Nyle poured himself a generous brandy and took a healthy gulp. Mercer’s death was upsetting, but to think it was murder was inconceivable. He shook his head in disbelief. “To kill Mercer? A faithful servant.” Nyle withdrew the list of guests with the circled names from his inner jacket pocket and stared at it. “It’s still hard for me to believe that one of these men, men I’ve known for years, is a killer. Do you have any idea at all why he would want to kill Mercer?”

“Not yet. It could have been blackmail, but I—” Garren suddenly stopped speaking and put one finger up to his lips in a gesture to stop their discussion of the case. He then rose and soundlessly moved toward the door. Turning to Nyle, he began to roll his finger in a movement for him to resume talking. Soundlessly, he took hold of the door handle and in one swift motion swung the door open.

When the door Thora was leaning against suddenly opened, she felt herself falling forward into the room. She threw out her hands to cushion her fall but it was broken when she landed against something hard. To her mortification, she realized it was Lord Huntscliff’s chest. Embarrassed, she started to step away, only to slip and have two strong, large hands catch her upper arms to steady her.

From behind the mountain that was Huntscliff, she heard her brother’s harsh voice, “Thora! What on God’s earth were you doing?”

Tilting her head to one side to see around the breadth of the man who still held her, Thora gave her brother a bold stare. “Eavesdropping, of course,” she flatly replied, drawing a grin from the towering man who seemed unwilling to let her go.

Garren released Thora and shut the door. “Do you make a habit of listening at doors, Miss Mannington?”

Thora raised an indignant chin. “Are you calling me a snoop, Lord Huntscliff?”

“And just what would you call pressing your ear to a closed door to hear a private conservation, Thora?” Nyle snapped, rising from his chair and putting down the list he was still holding on the table beside him.

“Detecting,” Thora smugly returned, marching over to Nyle. “I know you, Nyle,” she said, shaking a finger in her brother’s face. “You’re keeping something from me, and I’m not leaving this room until I find out what it is.” Seeing the guest list on the table, she snatched it before Nyle had a chance to stop her.

She quickly glanced over the names before letting out an incredulous gasp. “These names, the ones circled. They . . . they are my suspects!”

Garren lifted one of his dark brows. “Your suspects?”

Excitedly Thora explained, sputtering her words. “Yes, you see I knew the only reason Ivey would go out into the garden was to meet someone, someone she would be interested in. She was such a silly romantic, you see, always daydreaming about—” Thora suddenly stopped. She couldn’t go on. The mention of Ivey renewed her grief and her tears began to well in her eyes.

Nyle’s annoyance with Thora melted as quickly as lard in a heated pan the instant he saw her pain. Gently, he wrapped an arm around her slender shoulders and ushered her into a chair. Then, crouching beside her, he softly said, “Thora, I know how much you want to see Ivey’s killer brought to justice, but you must leave it to someone more capable in handling such matters.”

Thora struggled to regain her composure before asking, “And just whom might that be?”

The two men exchanged glances. They both knew Thora was too bright to be brushed aside with a weak explanation.

Nyle left his squatted position to half sit on the arm of one of the chairs near his sister.

After receiving a nod from Nyle, Garren slid up a chair alongside Thora and began to explain. “Your brother asked me to look into Miss Sharling’s death because he is one of the few people I trust with the knowledge that I once worked for the Royal Guardians.” A spark of pleasure ran threw him seeing the impressed look on Thora’s face at the revelation, and he took a moment to savor it before going on. “A secret I must now ask you not to reveal. I am here with a colleague of mine, Mason Greenstreet, who is currently posing as my manservant. We have strong reason to believe that your friend was not the killer’s first victim. We also believe that he may have killed Mercer as well. I must caution you, Miss Mannington, we are dealing with an individual who is very clever and very dangerous, and I suggest for your own safety you leave any, as you call it, detecting to us.”

Even with Lord Huntscliff seated, Thora still had to look up to view his face. Concern marked those dark eyes which she could now confirm to be a rich warm brown. His voice was deep but soothing, not harsh, and she stared at him with new interest.

“But I want to help,” she said with an undertone of determination that worried Garren.

“There is something you can do,” Garren said softly. “Be observant and listen but take no action. If you hear or see anything unusual or odd, you must come to either me, Nyle, or Mason.” Inwardly he hoped she would bring all of her concerns to him.

“And for heaven’s sake, Thora,” Nyle interjected, “don’t ever go off alone with any of the four men under suspicion.”

Thora threw her brother a vexed glare. “Nyle, I am not a fool!”

“No, but sometimes you do foolish things,” her brother returned, adding smartly, “Like listening at doors and getting caught in the act.”

Garren watched as Thora squinted her face at Nyle and was almost certain she would have childishly stuck out her tongue at her older sibling had he not been present. The word ‘tongue’ lingered in his mind and stirred images of Thora using hers in such an erotic fashion to taunt and tease him that he felt a jolt in his lower regions, causing him to shift uncomfortably in his seat. Casting his eyes away from the beguiling source of his arousal, Garren forced himself to quench the lurid pictures and was grateful when, a few moments later, they were distracted by a knock on the library door. “That’s most likely Mason. I told him earlier if I wasn’t in my room, I’d meet up with him in the library.”