The Last Lady of Thornhill Manor

by Patricia Haverton

  “He be awake,” said one of the voices.

  Turning his head, Reggie observed a wizened woman with grey hair tied into a bun limping toward him. She was tiny, perhaps half his size, with a deeply wrinkled face and bright brown eyes. “Me Laird.” She bobbed in a tiny curtsey, then rested her bony hand on his brow. “Ye hae nae fever, but ye lost much bluid afore ye be foond.”

  Reggie licked his lips, glancing past her at the old man who stood several paces away. He bowed when their eyes met. “Where am I?”

  “In uir home, Me Laird,” the man answered. “I be tending me flocks when I foond ye.”

  “Might I have a little water?”

  “Aye.”

  The tiny woman held a pewter cup of water to his lips, and Reggie ignored the flaring pain as he lifted his head to drink from it. The water soothed his dry throat and helped clear his fuzzy head. He relaxed and rested his head back on the pillow. “Thank you.”

  “I be Maddy Macalester,” the old woman said. “This be me husband, Dhugal.”

  “I am Reginald Davidson, the Marquess of Lyonhall.”

  “We ken ye be o’ high blood, Me Laird,” Mr. Macalester replied with an inclination of his head.

  “I dug the ball from yer shoulder while ye be sleepin’ and stitched yer wound,” Mrs. Macalester told him, her warm smile empty of any teeth. “Ye be foin in a few days.”

  Remembering the men who tried to kill him, Reggie shook his head. “I must return to London right away.”

  “Who shot ye, Me Laird?” Mr. Macalester asked.

  “Three villains attacked me on the road,” Reggie replied, rubbing at his sore shoulder and wincing. “They chased me, and I thought to lose them by crossing your fields. Then I passed out.”

  “Ye succeeded then, as they nae followed ye here.”

  “Good. I must leave your care, however, and return to London. Someone I care deeply about may also be in danger.”

  “Yer clothes be washed,” Mrs. Macalester informed him, “but they nae be fit tae wear. And ye be weak yet.”

  “How far is London from here?”

  “Aboot ten miles, Me Laird.”

  “And my horse?”

  “Fed and watered, though still weary from yer hard gallop.”

  Reggie nodded, feeling as weak as the old woman said, but his gut told him he needed to return to London as soon as possible. He had no idea who might have wanted him dead and knew his best chance of finding out might be Magistrate Healey and a London investigator. “I am indeed still weak, Mrs. Macalester. However, whoever wants me dead is still out there, and may seek to harm others I care for. If I might impose on you for some food, I will repay your kindness upon my return to the city.”

  “If ye be insisting upon leaving, Me Laird,” Mr. Macalester said with a sigh, “I will saddle yer beast.”

  “Thank you.”

  The old man turned and shuffled from the room, and Mrs. Macalester rose from the stool. “I will fetch yer clothes and food, then.”

  Thus, fed and dressed, Reggie stiffly and painfully mounted his horse, then reached down to clasp the old man’s hand. “I will not forget your care of me, Mr. Macalester,” he said. “Nor that of your wife.”

  “Go with God, Me Laird.”

  Riding at a careful walk, Reggie suspected it would take him a few hours to ride to London, and the sun would soon go down. Navigating his way back to the road, he kept a sharp watch for his pursuers, yet saw no sign of them. Suspecting they had given up the chase, he reached London shortly after dark. Not wanting to alarm Amalia by showing up at her father’s house in his condition, he walked wearily into his own home.

  “My Lord,” Grogan, his butler exclaimed, “what happened?”

  “Waylaid by villains,” he replied, gazing at his staircase and wondering if he had the strength to climb them to his chambers. “I took a ball in my shoulder.”

  “I will send for a physician immediately.”

  “No. My wound has been cared for. In the morning, send a footman with ten guineas to the farm of Mr. Dhugal Macalester. It lies about ten miles southwest of London.”

  “Yes, I will see to it. However, you need care, My Lord.”

  Reggie offered him a lopsided grin. “I may need some assistance up the stairs.”

  With his healthy right arm over his butler’s shoulder, Reggie made his way slowly up them to his chambers. Once inside, he sank to the edge of his bed and permitted his valet to help him undress. Grogan bent to examine his left shoulder, frowning.

  “It would appear that whoever cared for your wound was capable,” he commented. “Are you certain I should not call for a physician?”

  “I just need food and rest,” Reggie replied with a small smile. “Perhaps a small dose of laudanum.”

  “I will have a servant bring you all that, My Lord.” Grogan bowed and turned to leave.

  “Wait. In the morning, I also need you to send for a certain magistrate. His name is Randolph Healey. Ask him to bring with him his best investigator.”

  Grogan nodded. “To find the villains who tried to kill you?”

  “That, and to find the answers to a few other questions.”

  “Very good, My Lord. I will have food and laudanum brought to you.”

  “Thank you.”

  In spite of the pain remedy, Reggie’s shoulder throbbed and burned all night, making him toss on his bed as he fought to sleep. He finally managed it a few hours before dawn and slept until nearly ten in the morning. Though his pain level had not receded by much, he still felt stronger for having rested. After washing and dressing, he went down the stairs to find Magistrate Healey already awaiting him with a young man at his side.

  Both bowed as Reggie approached to welcome them and shake hands. “This is Andrew Crowley, My Lord,” Mr. Healey said, indicating the man with him. “Do not let his youth fool you; he is one of the city’s best investigators.”

  “Mr. Healey is very complimentary,” Mr. Crowley said, his tone modest. He was possibly the same age as Reggie, with a mop of curly red hair, intelligent green eyes, his grin infectious enough that Reggie returned it quickly. “I do my best, however.”

  “Thank you both for coming,” Reggie replied. “Have you breakfasted?”

  “Yes, we have,” Mr. Crowley replied with a grin, “But if that is an invitation, then I gladly accept.”

  “It is. I am in dire need of your help, Mr. Crowley, as well as yours, Mr. Healey. Come, I will explain as we dine.”

  As Grogan signaled the meal to be served, Reggie began. “As you know, Mr. Healey, someone has tried to kill me.”

  “Yes, indeed. Did the villain try again?”

  “Yesterday, while returning from my estate in Surrey, three men attacked me. I was shot.”

  Reggie indicated his left shoulder as the two men gaped in disbelief “Can you identify them, My Lord?” Mr. Crowley asked. “Once we catch them?”

  “I believe I can. I will need you to find out several things for me, Mr. Crowley. Can you find out if anyone in London has sold huge amounts of hemlock recently, and if so to whom?”

  Mr. Crowley exchanged a long glance with Mr. Healey. “Hemlock?”

  “I was called to my stud farm as six of my broodmares were killed, and I believe the deed was accomplished by feeding them apples heavily laced with hemlock.”

  “Dear God.” Mr. Healey stared, his filled fork hanging in midair from his fingers. “And you think whoever killed your horses is behind these attempts to kill you.”

  “Very much so.”

  Mr. Crowley nodded. “I will begin immediately.”

  “I would also like you to find out as much as you can regarding Frederick Watson, the Earl of Eastcairn,” Reggie went on, eating his breakfast with voracious hunger. “While I am not accusing him of anything, I am unwilling to discount him, either. His behavior seems strange to me, and since his arrival in London, these mysterious events started.”

  “Is there anything at all you can add about hi
m or these villains, My Lord?” Mr. Crowley asked. “What they wore, their horses, possible motives for wanting you dead or your horses dead?”

  “As far as motives, no,” Reggie answered. “I have thought and discounted any potential enemies for striking at me or my mares. The men yesterday were common workmen and rode even more common horses. However, workmen cannot afford horses, so where did they acquire mounts?”

  “How did they know to find you on the road?”

  Reggie shrugged, wincing. “Unless I have a spy in my household, they had to have known I would be returning to London sooner or later. If the person who killed my horses is also trying to kill me, he knew I would go to Surrey, then back.”

  “That makes sense.” Mr. Healey nodded. “And you, of course, would take the road in between.”

  “Exactly. All they had to do was wait.”

  “The hemlock is the best lead, My Lord,” Mr. Crowley said, chewing thoughtfully. “It is unlikely that whoever is behind this would suspect you would find out how your mares were killed.”

  “It was by sheer luck I found pieces of apple. And no, my grooms are forbidden to feed my horses anything save their proper feed. Thus, the apples were not there innocently.”

  “I do not think there are very many growers or suppliers of hemlock in London,” Mr. Crowley added. “I will begin my search by contacting those who sell to apothecaries and physicians.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” Reggie said with a small grin.

  “I am also familiar with the places whereby one might find villains for hire. Is there anything distinctive about the men who attacked you yesterday?”

  Staring to the side, chewing his food, Reggie pondered. “The man who spoke to me had a crooked nose and reddish-brown hair, hazel eyes. Other than that, they were all extraordinary in their ordinariness.”

  Mr. Crowley nodded. “These types of men tend to run in packs, My Lord. Many are ex-soldiers without any means of honest labor and hire themselves out as bully boys or murderers. I will make inquiries of a group of three without any distinguishing characteristics.”

  “That sounds extremely difficult.”

  “There are not as many bands like this as you would think. Most criminals in London are loners and prey upon the poor working classes.”

  “It sounds as though Mr. Healey brought me the right man for the job.”

  Too sore to ride, Reggie elected to travel the short distance to the Thornhill residence in a carriage, and even then, the rocking motion as the wheels bumped over the cobbles made his shoulder throb alarmingly. Feeling slightly nauseated, he suspected he should have remained at home and rested, but knew he needed to see Amalia and find out how the Duke fared.

  His stomach took another nasty turn when he was shown to the Duke’s private chambers upon his arrival. His Grace’s valet opened the door at his knock.

  “His Grace has requested no visitors, My Lord, but I will inquire.”

  Fearing the worst, Reggie waited, hoping the Duke and Amalia, would want to see him. Sure enough, the valet bowed him through to the Duke’s bedchamber where Amalia sat beside the Duke’s bed. “Reggie,” she exclaimed, rising to hurry to him. “Thank God you are here.”

  Reggie glanced from her drawn face and pale pallor to the silent Duke and not one but two physicians. Her personal maid sewed while seated in a corner and eyed him from time to time. “What happened?”

  Amalia stared deeply into his face. “What happened to you? I can see you are in pain.”

  Smiling, he replied, “You know me too well. I will tell you, but first, tell me about your father.”

  Needing to sit, Reggie took a chair near the bed as Amalia explained about how the Duke seemed to be recovering, Patrick’s attempt to conceal the marriage contract and subsequent disappearance. She glanced at the unconscious Duke. “Shortly after, my father took ill again. He has not woken since.”

  Reggie scowled. The feeling that he was missing something important returned to him, yet he still could not place in his mind as to what it was. Like an eel, it slipped away from him before he could grasp it. “And what do his physicians think?”

  “They have no idea and have tried every cure for every malady they could think of.” Amalia held her father’s hand, and Reggie observed the tears in her eyes, but they did not fall. “I am losing him, Reggie. Little by little, he is dying.”

  Despite his inner agreement, Reggie firmly shook his head. “No, Amalia, do not give up. We will find what is going on with him and fix it. He will be fine.”

  She rubbed her face with both hands, then aimed a tiny smile at him. “Now, it is your turn. What made you dash off like that? And how did you get hurt?”

  Wishing he could hold her in his arms again, wanting to tell her of how much he loved her, Reggie glanced at the physicians as they both conferred in soft voices over a book on the table. “I was attacked again. On my return from my estate in Surrey,” he said, wishing he did not have to burden her with yet another worry. “I got shot in the left shoulder.”

  “Reggie, no.” Amalia held her fingers to her lips, her golden eyes wide, incredulous. “Who on earth is trying to kill you?”

  “I have hired a city investigator to find that out,” Reggie replied, gazing at the Duke’s face. “I was baited into going out, I am starting to think, by someone killing six of my horses at my stud farm.”

  “Your horses?”

  “That is why I had to leave so suddenly. And I discovered that someone poisoned them by putting hemlock in apples.”

  Amalia opened her mouth to answer but was interrupted by the sudden scraping of chairs from the table. Reggie glanced up to find Mr. Hill and the other physician crossing the room toward them and staring at him, their mouths open.

  “My Lord,” the stranger asked. “Please repeat what you just said.”

  “My horses were poisoned.”

  The two men stared at one another. “Oh, my God,” Mr. Hill murmured.

  “How could we have missed it,” snapped the other. “It was in front of us the entire time.”

  “What was?’ Reggie began, then understanding flooded through him. He felt the blood drain from his face. “Lord, no.”

  “Are you all saying my father was poisoned?” Amalia asked, her face ashen. “Who? How?”

  “Forgive me, I must fetch my book on poisons,” Mr. Hill said, his tone frantic. “By your leave.”

  After a hasty bow, he dashed from the chamber, and Reggie heard the distant door slam. “That makes perfect sense,” he growled, rising despite his pain to pace. “His Grace is ill for a while and rises to return to normal. Someone in the household, perhaps a servant, poisons him again, and he returns here.”

  “Once the poison decreases, he starts to recover,” said the strange physician. “Until it is administered yet again.”

  “I do not believe we have been introduced,” Reggie said, extending his hand. “Reggie Davidson.”

  “James Williams, My Lord, personal physician to Lord Bainbridge.”

  “Thank you for bringing your knowledge and assistance, Mr. Williams.”

  “I am feeling like such a fool right now. I should have seen this right away.”

  Amalia also stood. “I think we should focus on who is doing this and getting him better, not repercussions. Can he be made well, Mr. Williams?”

  Mr. Williams gazed from her face to the Duke. “If it is not too late, My Lady,” he murmured. “Once we identify it, we can administer antidotes and see. That is all I can promise.”

  Shifting her eyes to Reggie, Amalia said, her voice soft, “What will you wager that whoever is trying to kill you is also trying to kill my father?”

  Chapter 17

  Reggie nodded slowly, his eyes on Amalia’s. “That is not a wager I will accept.”

  With her rage at the attempt to kill her father at war with her hopes that he might still be cured, Amalia resumed the pacing that Reggie halted. “Who could have done this, Reggie? Why are you and my fathe
r both targets?”

  “When I find out, he or she will wish they had never tried.”

  She recognized the venom in his voice and looked closely into his face, observing the tightness of his own anger and his pain. “Reggie, you should sit down, I do not like how pale you are. Perhaps Mr. Williams will have a look at your injury.”

  “I would be happy to do so, My Lord.”

  Reggie did sit but waved away the offer of help. “Perhaps later, Mr. Williams. Right now, I feel we must focus on who and why.”

  “Do you and His Grace share a common enemy?” Mr. Williams asked. “That would be most logical.”

  Reggie drew in a deep breath, winced, and rubbed his shoulder. “I went through my own list of enemies and came up with little. I do not believe the Duke has any, at least none willing to kill. I did, however, hire an investigator just this morning. He will start with suppliers of the hemlock I believe killed my horses.”

  Mr. Williams frowned, shaking his head. “His Grace was not given hemlock. If he had, he would have died almost right away.”

  “However, poison is the common thread here.”

  “Very true.”

  Mr. Hill returned with a small book, waving it over his head, and almost forgot to bow. “Perhaps now we can discover what ails His Grace and deliver an antidote.”

  “My Lord, My Lady.” Mr. Williams bowed to them, and conferred once again with Mr. Hill, both of them bent over the book, turning pages and murmuring to one another.

  Amalia gazed at them for a few moments, then sat back down beside her father. “If he was poisoned by a servant,” she began slowly, holding the Duke’s limp hand again, “perhaps planted by this assassin, then how did the poison get up here into his rooms?”

  Reggie frowned, leaning forward. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, he started to improve when Mr. Hill refused to give him anything he himself had not prepared. If we can trust Mr. Hill to not be our killer or the killer’s agent, then the poison is here.”

  “And in trying to cure him,” Reggie snapped, angry again, “he inadvertently gave it to the Duke.”