by Ann Lacey
Thora gave Garren a proud glance before turning to the inspector. “I can tell you,” she said. “Marquis Brightington confessed to me that when Mercer went to tidy the billiards room that night after everyone had gone to sleep, there were two empty glasses, which of course there should have been with two men playing billiards. But, having a fine nose for spirits, he discovered that both glasses had held wine and there was no brandy.”
Interrupting, the inspector asked, “Well what does that prove?”
“That,” Thora testily replied, annoyed by the inspector’s interruption, causing both Nyle and Garren to choke back a laugh, “proves that Mercer, who prided himself on remembering the favored spirit of every guest who visited the manor, knew that Marquis Brightington preferred wine while Viscount Simon-North drank only brandy. There should have been a glass for each, but the glasses he found had both contained wine, which he thought was odd. He also noticed that only one cue had been chalked.” Thora lowered her head. “Poor Mercer,” she murmured, her voice slightly cracking.
Nyle lowered his arm from around her shoulders and took her hand in his to give it a gentle, comforting squeeze as Garren resumed.
“When Mercer approached Marquis Brightington for what he thought a simple explanation, he sealed his death warrant. Charmingly polite, Brightington told the elderly man to meet him in his room after everyone retired. Knowing that the servant would use the back staircase, it was easy for Marquis Brightington to leave his room later that night when the house lights were lowered, hide in the shadows, and with a quick shove at the top of the stairs Mercer’s curiosity was eased forever.”
“But how did you and Nyle know where to find me when you came back to the manor?” Thora asked.
“One of the parlor maids saw you leave the manor and head in the direction of the boathouse.”
“Thank goodness.” Thora sighed.
Inwardly, Garren repeated her words. Silently, he thought he would have beaten the information of out of Simon-North.
“So,” the inspector said, “it was Brightington who attacked Lord Huntscliff’s so-called manservant.”
“No, Inspector,” Thora said, giving him a sheepish look. “I hit Mr. Greenstreet when he followed me into the boathouse. I mistakenly thought he was the murderer.”
The inspector scratched his head. “Why was he following you in the first place?”
“That was my doing, Inspector,” Garren explained. “As I told you and Lord Langless, Mason Greenstreet is not my servant. He’s a private investigator I commissioned to help me and Lord Mannington in protecting the house guests, and I had instructed him to keep an eye on Lady Thora, who I feared could be the next victim.” Inwardly, he added, and who had the habit of taking far too many risks!
Goosebumps appeared on Thora’s arms as she realized how close she came to becoming that victim.
The inspector asked for a moment to jot some notes in his small book. While the inspector was writing, Garren went over to Nyle and whispered something in his ear.
Though she was sitting next to her brother, Thora couldn’t distinguish what Garren said. She watched as Nyle stood up and strode over to one of the constables and spoke to him in low tones. Nyle then left the room with the constable.
What was going on? She was about to ask Garren, who took a moment to pour himself some tea and settled into one of the armchairs to drink it, when the inspector took the chair Nyle had vacated and began to ask her questions concerning the statements Marquis Brightington had made in the boathouse. Much to her dismay, he wrote down her responses in his little book with the pace of a child first learning their letters. By the time she had answered the inspector’s last inquiry, she noticed that Nyle and the constable had returned and that the constable was carrying a box in his hand.
“Ah,” Garren said, seeing Nyle and the constable return. Rising from his chair and setting down his cup, he crossed over to the constable and took the box. Then, addressing Floris and Lauryn, he said, “Since the murderers have been caught, may I suggest that the police rattles that Lady Thora provided each of you with on the first day of your visit be returned to the authorities, whom I’m sure could put them to good use?”
“Oh yes,” Lauryn Mayfield said, reaching into her skirt pocket and withdrawing the rattle, which she placed inside the box Garren held out to her. “I almost hate to part with it. It did save me from that frightening spider,” she added with a giggle, giving Lord Flemington an appreciative glance.
Lady Floris also dropped her rattle into the box. Moving over to Thora, she looked up at him and said, “I don’t have mine. Marquis Brightington took it from me in the boathouse.”
Putting his hand in his pocket, he pulled out a rattle. “I know. I found it on the boathouse floor,” he said, dropping the rattle into the box. He peered down into the box and then lifted his eyes and said, “Three rattles, but there’s still one’s missing. Oh yes, Lady Cecilia Boothwell’s.”
“But . . .” Thora started, knowing that Cecilia’s rattle had already been returned to the police when the doctor found it in her skirt pocket, but she was quickly quieted when Garren leaned over to whisper in her ear. “I must ask you to remain silent unless you would like me to quiet you some other way.” He wore a smirk on his face and a devilish gleam in his eye.
Face pinking, Thora sealed her lips.
“Lady Cecilia Boothwell! I forgot about her,” Inspector Graham exclaimed. “Which one of the two did her in?”
“Neither Marquis Brightington or Viscount Simon-North had anything to do with Lady Cecilia’s death. Isn’t that right, Mr. Leedworthy?” Garren said, staring directly at the man.
All heads turned to Sandler Leedworthy.
“But I had nothing to do with Cecilia’s death!” a shocked Leedworthy protested as he jumped to his feet.
“I knew it!” Lord Langless angrily bellowed. “I was right in denying you the honor of courting my Floris.”
Garren motioned for Lord Langless to quiet himself and then turned back to Leedwothy. “Then can you explain how this rattle was found in your room by Lord Somerville and the constable when they searched your room a few moments ago?”
“I don’t know how the bloody thing got there,” Leedworthy vented angrily. “That rattle can’t be Cecilia’s,” Floris suddenly gushed. “She never used it that night!”
Garren left Leedworthy and turned on Floris with the sharpness of a cobra ready to strike. “The only people who could know that are the doctor who examined her and Lady Thora, who saw the doctor return it to the constable that night. The only way you could have known it wasn’t Lady Cecilia’s is if you were with her on the night she died. You put out the torches so that no one would see you take Lady Cecilia aside. You took her to the pond, didn’t you, Lady Floris?”
Floris looked round the room. Everyone was staring at her. Her parents were in the state of shock. Her lips moved but they made no sound. Tears spilled from her eyes and ran down her cheeks. “I didn’t mean to hurt her. It was . . . it was just that she said such awful things.” Her eyes traveled to Sandler Leedworthy. “She said I’d never have you . . . that you would always belong to her. I was angry and I pushed her and started to leave. I didn’t even realize she hit her head on one of the stone dolphins until I heard the splash and saw the blood on her head.” Burying her face in her hands, Floris sobbed heavily.
“It was the splash and not champagne as you told Lady Thora that wet your skirts and had you so upset that she had to assist you to your room to help you change,” Garren ascertained.
Floris, sobbing and unable to speak, nodded.
Sandler Leedworthy rushed to kneel at her side. “Please don’t cry, Floris. I understand. I know you didn’t mean it,” he softly comforted.
Lady Langless joined the young man and wrapped her arms around her daughter while Lor
d Langless looked too stunned to move. When he did rise from his chair, Lord Langless moved over to Leedworthy and placed a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “I knew about your affair with Cecilia. When she turned up dead, I thought it was you. I was fearful. I didn’t want you to have anything to do with Floris, and here I find it was my own . . .”
Garren reached over and placed his hand on the older man’s arm to silence him. “Floris didn’t meet Lady Cecilia with the intention to do her harm. She just wanted to talk to her. It was an accident, nothing more. Don’t you agree, Inspector Graham?”
“Without malice, no murder,” the inspector said flatly but added that he would still have to ask Lady Floris to come down to the station house to sign a written statement.
“May I go with her?” Sandler Leedworthy asked, looking not at Inspector Graham but Lord Langless.
“Yes,” Lord Langless said, his face guilt-ridden. “And I’m sorry for having misjudged you. You can accompany Floris in our carriage with me and my wife.”
Garren stole a look at Thora, who seemed to be as shamefaced as Lord Langless. She, too, had accused Leedworthy of murdering Cecilia the night of the concert. Her eyes found his and he could tell they had a question. “Something puzzling you, Lady Thora?”
“But if the rattle was found in Leedworthy’s room, how did it get there and who does it belong to?” she asked.
“It belongs to Mason, a keepsake from his early years as a constable before he became a private investigator,” Garren answered. “I put it in Leedworthy’s room just before coming downstairs. Accusing Leedworthy was the only way to get Lady Floris to admit the truth, which I’m certain she would have done eventually.”
“I guess that about wraps everything up, Lord Somerville. You and Lord Huntscliff have been most helpful,” Inspector Graham said. Turning to his constable, he ordered the man to get their prisoners ready.
Helpful, Thora thought, objecting to the word. Garren had not only solved the case but handed it to the inspector wrapped up neatly without a single loose end.
Garren started to move toward Thora but Lauryn and Lord Flemington were both by her chair, suggesting she go upstairs to rest.
“Lady Thora, you should have a lie down. I can’t imagine the fright Marquis Brightington must have given you,” Flemington said.
It annoyed Garren that the man stole the words he had wanted to say.
“I think you’re right, Lord Flemington. I have had a most trying day,” Thora said, rising and taking his offered arm.
Garren followed them as they exited into the center hall.
Thora, hearing the study door open abruptly, stopped, and her eyes narrowed at the sight of Marquis Brightington and Viscount Simon-North.
Seeing Thora, Simon-North gibed at Brightington. “So you failed. I’m still ahead of the game.”
Hearing his words, she turned to Lord Flemington. “My Lord, there is a small service I would ask you to perform for me.”
“Anything, Lady Thora,” Lord Flemington replied.
Thora whispered into his ear.
The shocked look on Flemington’s face had Garren wondering what she had asked him to do.
Recovering, Lord Flemington gave her a nod, uttering, “Only too willing to oblige, Lady Thora.”
As Viscount Simon-North strode past, Lord Flemington sent his fist crashing into the center of the other man’s face with lighting speed. The force of Flemington’s blow sent Simon-North flying backward into one of the constables, who wobbled unsteadily as the prisoner’s weight fell against him. Holding his cuffed hands to his face as blood streamed from his nostrils, Simon-North yelped, “You broke my nose!”
“That,” Thora sneered, “was for Ivey!”
“Now, now that will be enough,” Inspector Graham harshly voiced, giving Lord Flemington and Thora a scolding glance as he and his men took their prisoners outside and into the carriage Nyle had requested brought up to the front of the manor.
Thora watched as the carriage rolled away, followed by the Langless carriage carrying Lord and Lady Langless, Floris, and Sandler Leedworthy. As the Langless carriage passed, Thora caught a glimpse of Lord Langless wrapping his arm around Floris and giving her a gentle, loving squeeze.
Thora sighed. It was over. Ivey’s murder was solved. Suddenly she felt someone’s presence behind her. She turned and saw through weary eyes that it was Nyle.
“Thora, I’m going to take you upstairs. You need to rest,” Nyle said. “Then I’m going to send Molly up with a bowl of broth and a strong cup of tea.”
“That sounds wonderful, Nyle,” she said.
Leaning against her brother, she climbed the stairs to her room and flopped onto her bed. Before Molly brought up her food tray, she was sound asleep.
The next morning the sun rose and shooed away the few dark clouds lingering from the day before. It was a special day for Garren who had risen early and was in the breakfast room anxiously waiting for Thora to appear. He wanted very much to speak to her. There was something he needed to ask her. He was having coffee with Nyle and was glad that they were alone. He was inwardly formulating his words and had started to speak when he was halted by Lord Flemington entering the room.
“Good morning,” the pugilist greeted cheerfully.
Annoyed by the intrusion, Garren went to the sideboard to pour himself another cup of coffee. He watched as Flemington filled his breakfast plate and then sat next to Nyle. After filling his cup, Garren returned to his seat just as Lord Flemington uttered the word marriage.
Who had Flemington been talking about? Garren sat forward, cursing himself for not being more attentive. He finished his coffee and, after excusing himself, went upstairs to check on Mason. Without knocking, he entered his colleague’s room and was taken back to find Thora inside busily fussing over the broadly grinning Mason.
“How are you feeling this morning, Mr. Greenstreet?” Garren heard a concerned Thora question while she leaned over the man to adjust his pillows.
Seeing that Garren had entered the room Mason, in a faked raspy voice, retorted, “A tad better, Lady Thora.” He had a hard time holding back his mirth as he watched Huntscliff’s face angrily contort.
“Well, you just relax, Mr. Greenstreet. I’ll be up with a tray for you in a few minutes,” Thora said. Noticing that Garren had come to see his friend, she added, “I’m sure he’ll be fine in a day or two.”
“I’m certain of it, Thora,” Garren muttered. There wasn’t anything wrong with Mason that a good swift kick wouldn’t cure.
“I don’t deserve such looking after,” Mason weakly called out as she opened the door to leave.
“Oh, but you do, Mr. Greenstreet, you most certainly do,” Thora said, giving him an endearing smile.
Garren waited for Thora to close the door behind her before snarling at Mason. “Don’t deserve it, is right! You got harder knocks on that rock-hard head of yours when you were a constable on the streets of London, and you were back on the job the same day.”
“That’s true,” Mason admitted smugly. “But back then I never had anyone as pretty as Lady Thora nursing me back to health. She’s got such soft hands and smells good, too.”
“I forbid you to smell her,” Garren roared, his hands curling into fists.
“Forbid? Huntscliff, you sound like she belongs to you and I’ll bet you haven’t even asked her yet. Better be quick or someone else just might beat you to it.” Mason laughed.
“That does it,” Garren hissed through clenched teeth. He marched over to the bed and was about to drag Mason from it when Thora suddenly reappeared with her maid, the latter carrying a tray laden with food. He took a step back from the bed at their sudden appearance.
“Molly was already on the stairs with your breakfast tray,” Thora said, explaining her quick return. She
instructed her maid to set the tray down on the bed for Mr. Greenstreet. “I didn’t know what you would like, so I had the cook provide you with a bit of everything.”
Mason’s eyes grew wide and his mouth watered. The tray had a serving of thick ham slices, eggs, crispy fried bacon, kippers, fresh baked scones, toast, butter and marmalade, and a pot of coffee, the one thing the cook knew Mr. Greenstreet preferred. “Oh, Lady Thora, you are spoiling me.”
Garren looked on with envy as Thora poured Mason his coffee. “Cream and sugar, Mr. Greenstreet?”
“Just black,” Mason answered as he picked up his fork and dug into his breakfast.
“Thora, I think Mason is capable of feeding himself. May I accompany you downstairs to the breakfast room?” Garren asked.
Observing that Mr. Greenstreet was as engrossed with his breakfast as a child with a bowl of pudding, Thora giggled. “Seems you’re right, my lord.”
As Garren opened the door for Thora, she turned and said, “If there’s anything you need, Mr. Greenstreet, anything at all, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
Mason, unable to speak due to a mouthful of food, he smiled and nodded. Thora returned his smile and, from behind her, Garren’s eyes threw daggers.