Murder Most Historical: A Collection of Short Mysteries

by Ashley Gardner

  “Not the child,” my night-slayer said behind me. “It is guilt.”

  “Margery stole the drohner,” I said, finally understanding.

  I remembered now that she’d paid me a visit a few days before I realized the thing had gone from the box I’d locked it into. I never liked her coming to my meager digs, and I’d rushed out to a tavern around the corner to bring her decent food and drink. She could easily have broken the flimsy lock of the box in my desk and taken the drohner.

  In my gin-riddled state I’d not bothered looking at the thing or noticing that its hum in my heart had gone until I’d had the hankering to see it again. My devastation at finding the box empty had been horrible. I’d frantically searched my rooms, thinking I’d moved it and hadn’t remembered. I’d ended up on the floor in wretched despair when I realized it was truly gone, and had drowned my sorrows in still more gin.

  “That she did,” the night-slayer said.

  Margery lowered the towel. She looked pinched and old as she turned to the night-slayer. “How did you find it?”

  The night-slayer spoke matter-of-factly. “I followed you when you last went to look at it. I suppose you couldn’t resist making sure it was still safe. You hid it in the crypt of the Archer ancestors. Clever. You would have ‘found’ it when you laid your dear husband to rest.”

  Margery’s eyes filled with fury as wild as any night-slayer’s. “Frederick is brutal. I hate him.”

  The night-slayer did not change expression. “Your husband will weaken and die without the drohner. Everything he is comes from it.”

  “I want him to die,” Margery spat. “I want the child to be Robert’s. I want—I want him.”

  I stared at Margery in shock and anger. “You sent men after me to kill me. How can you say you want me and then do that?”

  Margery shook her head, her wisps of curls trembling. “To frighten you. To stop you looking for the drohner. I never meant them to harm you. You have been good to me.”

  In the silence, two droplets of water fell from her wet fingers and spattered on the floor.

  “Even if Freddy dies, I can never marry you,” I said slowly. “The law forbids a man marrying his brother’s wife. Doesn’t matter if the brother is dead.”

  Margery’s face was flushed with anger, her eyes wet. “My husband lives. With the return of the drohner, he will go on living. He will grow strong again. I can’t bear it.”

  I pried the towel from Margery, set it aside, and took her hands. “Margery, I will not let him hurt you. Trust me—he will not lay a finger on you.”

  Margery’s tears spilled from her eyes, her lips trembling in stark fear. “You cannot prevent him. You are not always here—Frederick does not listen to you. He doesn’t respect you.”

  I was more resolute, and certain, as I looked into my sister-in-law’s eyes than I had ever been. “I will protect you, Margery. I shall tell old Freddy that if he ever harms you, I will send for my night-slayer and let her play with him.”

  The night-slayer turned from where she’d been pacing a restless circuit of the room. “I am not tame, as I told you,” she said in a hard voice. “Even if I do come when you bid me, I may be too hungry, too desperate to let you stop me killing him and draining him.”

  I gave her a dour look. “That is the risk Freddy will have to take. When he raises his hand against Margery, he will remember you reaching in for his heart tonight.”

  Margery’s brown eyes were red-rimmed, her face blotchy with her weeping and illness. She looked beaten down and defeated, but I still saw the pretty young woman, all ringlets and soft smiles, who’d been introduced to me in a ballroom by Freddy, proud of his catch, all those years ago. I swore I would make her beautiful again.

  I do not think Margery believed me when I said I could keep my brother in check, but I would make Freddy believe it.

  My night-slayer was right: Frederick thought honor lay in a bit of stone, so easily taken, so easily lost. The night-slayer, a beast of violence and blood, had far more honor in her than Frederick ever would. For love of a child, an innocent, my night-slayer had curbed herself; for hope of a child, quiet Margery had committed two crimes in the eyes of the world.

  I quit the room and strode back through the passage that led to Frederick’s sitting room. The night-slayer followed. “I will not always come when you call,” she warned me, sounding displeased.

  “Frederick does not have to know that,” I said with grim humor. “It is likely, if I put the fear of God in him, that you will not have to bother with him at all.”

  Candlelight sparkled on the night-slayer’s sun-colored hair. “Margery has bravery in her. She dealt her husband a mortal blow, stealing the drohner, and he could not do a thing about it. Margery did not like hurting you, I think, but she lived with that guilt to get to your brother. She will make him a formidable enemy.”

  I snorted. “Good. It is about time Margery had her own back. She will have him exactly where she wants him.”

  The night-slayer touched my hair. “And I have you.” She released me and licked the last of Frederick’s dried blood from her forefinger.

  I gave her a startled look, but my night-slayer only smiled.

  Androcles had never completely tamed his lion.

  End

  A Note from the Author

  Thank you for reading! These three stories began life long ago and were then buried and forgotten as my publishing career went in another direction. I came across the stories again when I emptied my closets after a flood forced us to replace the flooring throughout the entire house.

  This closet held a cardboard box of stories—about fifty in all—across several genres, mainly mystery and scifi/fantasy. Some had been sold to small magazines; others I’d never submitted.

  I went through the stories and decided to publish the ones I liked best, rewriting and revising as needed. I had many of them saved to floppy disks (also in the box)—I had to purchase a three-and-a-half-inch disk drive I could plug in to my current laptop to retrieve the electronic copies.

  The first story, The Bishop’s Lady, features Émilie d’Armand, a young lady-in-waiting at the court of Louis XIV. I had written a complete novel about Émilie and about a third of another before I ran out of time to work on her stories. I also have a few incomplete short stories that I will at some point finish to be published, as well as the novels.

  The second story, A Soupçon of Poison, features Kat Holloway, a cook, another sleuth I planned to launch in a series. I had written about a third of Soupçon before, again, I had to put this story aside.

  I’m pleased to be able to revive the stories and present them here. As time permits, I hope to expand on these two lady sleuths.

  For the last story, A Matter of Honor, I debated a long time before adding it to this collection. It is a historical mystery, with the flavor of the Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries, but of course, there is the vampire to consider. I decided to include the story here because it fit best with historical fiction. This is a standalone, with no other stories in this world, although I do like the alternate Regency I have created and might explore it further.

  Thanks again for reading. I continue to write the Captain Lacey Regency mysteries (have plenty more stories to tell), but I’m also happy to revive my love of historical mysteries in general with this peek at sleuths and time periods that are of interest to me.

  For more information on the Captain Lacey mystery series, and to stay informed about when I will publish more Émilie d’Armand and Kat Holloway stories, visit my website at http://www.gardnermysteries.com. While there, join my newsletter, or link to the newsletter directly at http://eepurl.com/5n7rz. I send out newsletters when I have a new release, or other important announcements about books and series.

  Best wishes,

  Ashley Gardner

  Read on for an

  Excerpt of

  The Hanover Square Affair

  Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries

  Book
1

  by Ashley Gardner

  Chapter One

  London, April 1816

  Sharp as a whip-crack, a shot echoed through the mists in Hanover Square.

  The mob in the square boiled apart, flinging sticks and pieces of brick as they fled the line of cavalrymen who’d entered the far side of the square. I hugged a rain-soaked wall as people poured past me, bumping and shoving in their panic as though I weren’t six feet tall and plenty solid.

  The square and the streets that led to it had been bottled with traffic all afternoon: carts, carriages, horses, wagons, and those on foot who’d been running errands or passing through, as well as street vendors crying their wares. The mob had stopped traffic in all directions, trapping inside the square those now desperate to get out. They scrambled to get away from the cavalry and their deadly guns, and bystanders scrambled to flee the mob.

  I scraped my way along the wall, rough stone tearing my cheap gloves, going against the stream of bodies that tried to carry me along. Inside the square, in the eye of the storm, the cavalrymen waited, the blues and reds and canary yellows of their uniforms stark against the fog.

  The man who stood in their gun sights had led the mob the better part of the afternoon: shouting, cursing, flinging stones and pieces of brick at the unfortunate house that was number 22, Hanover Square. Now he faced the cavalrymen, his back straight, his gray hair dark with rain.

  I recognized the lieutenant in charge, Lord Arthur Gale of the Twenty-Fourth Light Dragoons. A few years before, on a Portuguese battlefield, I’d dragged young Gale out from under a dead horse and sent him on his way. That incident, however, had not formed any camaraderie between us. Gale was the son of a marquis and already a social success, and I, the only son of an impoverished gentleman, mattered little to the Gale family.

  I did not trust Gale’s judgment one whit. He had once led a charge so hard that he’d broken through a solid line of French infantry but then found himself and his men behind enemy lines and too winded to get back. Gale had been one of the few who’d returned from that charge, leaving most of the others, horses and men alike, dead.

  “Gentlemen,” the old man said to the cavalrymen. “I thank you for coming. We must have him out. He must pay for what he’s done.”

  He pointed at the house—number 22, ground-floor windows smashed, front door’s black paint gouged.

  Gale sneered down at him. “Get along, man, or we’ll take you to a magistrate.”

  “Not I, gentlemen. He should face justice. Take him from his house. Bring him out to me. I beg of you.”

  I studied the house in some surprise. Any man who could afford to own, or lease, a house in Hanover Square must be wealthy and powerful. I assumed he was some peer in the House of Lords, or at least a rich MP, who had proposed some unpopular bill or movement, inspiring a riot against him. The rising price of bread, as well as the horde of soldiers pouring back into England after Waterloo, had created a smoldering rage in those who suddenly found themselves with nothing. The anger flared every now and then into a riot. It was not difficult these days to turn a crowd into a violent mob in the space of an instant.

  I had no idea who lived in number 22 or what were his political leanings. I had simply been trying to pass through Hanover Square on my way to Brook Street, deeper into Mayfair. But the elderly man’s quiet despair and incongruous air of respectability drew me to him. I always, Louisa Brandon had once told me, had a soft spot for the desperate.

  Gale’s eyes were dark and hard. “If you do not move along, I will have to arrest you for breach of the King’s peace.”

  “Breach of the King’s peace?” the man shouted. “When a man sins against another, is that not a breach of the King’s peace? Shall we let them take our daughters while we weep? Shall I let him sit in his fine house while mine is ruined with grief?”

  Gale made a sharp gesture to the cavalryman next to him. The man obediently dismounted and strode toward the gray-haired rioter.

  The older man watched him come with more astonishment than fear. “Is it justice that I pay for his sins?”

  “I advise you to go home, sir,” Gale repeated.

  “No, I tell you, you must have him out! He must face you and confess what he’s done.”

  His desperation reached me as white mists moved to swallow the scene. The blue and red of the cavalry uniforms, the black of the man’s suit, the bays and browns of the horses began to dull against the smudge of white.

  “What has he done?” I asked.

  The man swung around. Strands of hair matted to his face, and thin lines of dried blood caked his skin as though he’d scratched himself in his fury. “You would listen to me? You would help me?”

  “Get out of it, Captain,” Gale said, his mouth a grim line.

  I regretted speaking, unsure I wanted to engage myself in what might be a political affair, but the man’s anger and despair seemed more than mob fury over the price of food. Gale would no doubt arrest him and drag him off to wait in a cold cell for the magistrate’s pleasure. Perhaps one person should hear him speak.

  “What has the man in number 22 done to you?” I repeated.

  The old man took a step toward me, eyes burning. “He has sinned. He has stolen from me the most precious thing I own. He has killed me!”

  I watched madness well up in his eyes. With a fierce cry, he turned and launched himself at the door of number 22.

  End of Excerpt

  Books in the Captain Lacey Regency Mystery Series

  The Hanover Square Affair

  A Regimental Murder

  The Glass House

  The Sudbury School Murders

  The Necklace Affair

  A Body in Berkeley Square

  A Covent Garden Mystery

  A Death in Norfolk

  A Disappearance in Drury Lane

  Murder in Grosvenor Square

  The Thames River Murders

  The Gentleman's Walking Stick

  (short stories)

  And more to come!

  Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries, Vol 1

  Includes

  The Hanover Square Affair

  A Regimental Murder

  The Glass House

  The Gentleman’s Walking Stick

  (short story collection)

  Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries, Vol 2

  Includes

  The Sudbury School Murders

  The Necklace Affair

  A Body in Berkeley Square

  A Covent Garden Mystery

  More boxed sets will follow as the series grows

  Other Mysteries

  Murder Most Historical

  (anthology)

  About the Author

  Award-winning Ashley Gardner is a pseudonym for New York Times bestselling author Jennifer Ashley. Under both names—and a third, Allyson James—Ashley has written more than 75 published novels and novellas in mystery and romance. Her books have won several RT BookReviews Reviewers Choice awards (including Best Historical Mystery for The Sudbury School Murders), and Romance Writers of America's RITA (given for the best romance novels and novellas of the year). Ashley's books have been translated into more than a dozen different languages and have earned starred reviews in Booklist. When she isn’t writing, she indulges her love for history by researching and building miniature houses and furniture from many periods.

  More about the Captain Lacey series can be found at the website: www.gardnermysteries.com. Or email Ashley Gardner at gardnermysteries@cox.net

  The Bishop’s Lady Copyright © 2015 by Jennifer Ashley / Ashley Gardner

  A Soupcon of Poison Copyright © 2015 by Jennifer Ashley / Ashley Gardner

  A Matter of Honor Copyright © 2015 by Jennifer Ashley / Ashley Gardner

  These stories are works of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead,
actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of these stories or this collected anthology may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

  Cover design by Kim Killion