A Second Chance for Murder

by Ann Lacey

  Mason waved off the butler’s warning and entered the study.

  Jasper shrugged his shoulders in a helpless gesture and then hurried to the kitchen to have the cook to brew a very large, very strong pot of coffee.

  Mason found Huntscliff’s long body sprawled in an armchair, a bottle of brandy in one hand and a nearly empty glass in the other.

  “I told you, Jasfer,” Huntscliff slurred, assuming it was his butler who had entered. “Leave me be!”

  “What are we celebrating, Huntscliff?” Mason asked evenly.

  Hearing an unexpected but familiar voice, Garren’s head rose and bobbled like a small boat in choppy water. It took him a moment to steady his gaze before he said, “Oh, it’s you. Why are you here? Lady Thora, excuse me, the future Lady Flemington, too busy with wedding plans to personally tend to you?” he snarled. “How easily she forgets the one who saved her. Does she ask me to punch the nose of that skirt-chasing, murdering, male whore Simon-North? Something I’ve wanted to do since the first day I laid eyes on the man? No. She turns to her beloved Flemington, as if he had anything to do with rescuing her.”

  Having been in the study on previous visits, Mason knew Huntscliff kept a water pitcher and glass on his desk. After picking up the glass, he moved over to Garren and held it out. “May I join you?” he asked.

  Mason looked on as Garren’s unsteady hand held the brandy bottle over his glass and sought to fill it. The brandy bottle wavered back and forth over the glass, pouring most of its contents onto the floor. Such a waste of fine liquor was intolerable to Mason. Taking hold of the big man’s hand, he steadied it until his glass was filled. He took a quick swallow of brandy, slid up a chair, and said, “Maybe she thought you had done enough for one day. After all, your knuckles are still showing bruises from the clash with Simon-North and Brightington.”

  Lifting his hand and holding up his index finger, Garren waved it frantically at Mason, shouting, “No, that’s not it, Mason. The reason she didn’t ask me was that Flemington is her hero. He’s her tangle-tongued, poetry reciter and her nose punching, spider-slaying champion.”

  Huntscliff’s description of Lord Flemington had Mason gritting his teeth to hold back the laugh desperately trying to escape. “And such a kind man. Why, you yourself said that he was one of the most considerate—”

  “Don’t throw my own words at me, Mason! I know what I said,” Garren growled. “And it only makes matters worse that I happen to respect the man.”

  “Then you’ll be going to the wedding?”

  Garren stared down into his brandy glass and slowly shook his head. The mere thought of Thora with another man was agonizing enough, but to witness her joined to him would be devastating.

  “Well, I’m invited and I’m going. Should be a real gala affair. Going to be held at Flemington’s estate.”

  “I would have thought that Nyle—” Garren started to mutter but then abruptly stopped, wanting to end the painful discussion of Thora and Flemington’s nuptials.

  But Mason went on. “I heard Lord Flemington is sparing no expense, granting his bride whatever her little heart desires.”

  “Is that why you left? Because the Nyle and Thora are at Lord Flemington’s estate? The future Lady Flemington abandoned you? Her patient?”

  Mason braced himself and looked directly at Huntscliff before he spoke his next words. “The future Lady Flemington has never, as you put it, tended to me.”

  Garren shook his head, and Mason half expected it to rattle before his friend gave him an accusatory glare. “Have you come here to spin lies?”

  Mason took another sip of Huntscliff’s excellent brandy, and then set the glass down. “As I said, the future Lady Flemington never gave me any care. She couldn’t have cared less about the bump on my head.”

  As Mason expected, his words riled the inebriated man sitting across from him. Garren sprang from his chair and Mason did likewise, ready to catch him should he topple over. But tipsy as he was Garren managed to stand erect.

  “Liar. She was worried sick about you. Hovered over you like a mother over a sick child.”

  “If that’s the way she cares for a sick child, then I surely hope the future Lady Flemington bears healthy offspring!”

  Enough! Garren swung his fist at Mason, missing him by a mile but destroying a vase of flowers atop a nearby table, sending it crashing to the floor. The momentum of his roundhouse sent him into a spin, causing him to lose the little balance he had. He toppled to the floor like fallen timber. After expelling a groan, he passed out.

  Hearing the thunderous thud, Jasper burst into the room, his eyes widening upon seeing the broken vase with its flowers strewn on the floor and his master lying in the midst of them. He shook his head. Never had he seen his master in such a state.

  “Help me get him upstairs,” Mason instructed.

  Jasper turned to his master then to Mason. “He’s too big for just the two of us, Mr. Greenstreet. Let me get the footman to help us.”

  When the footman came into the study, his reaction was much like Jasper’s. He, too, appeared shocked at his master’s condition. Mason helped Garren into a sitting position and then locked his arms around Garren’s upper half. He instructed Jasper and the footman to each carry a leg. Though it was difficult, together they managed to haul Garren upstairs and set him down on the bed. Having completed their task, all three released an exhausted sigh. Jasper took off his master’s boots and, with the footman’s help, stripped him of his jacket. Having completed his task, the footman exited the room to return to his duties, leaving Mason and Jasper to watch over his master.

  “Not much we can do here. Better he sleeps it off,” Mason commented.

  They softly exited the room and shut the bedroom door behind them. Once in the hall, Mason turned to Jasper. “He’s going to have one hell of a headache when he wakes.”

  “Mr. Greenstreet, do you know what caused Lord Huntscliff’s peculiar behavior?” Jasper queried.

  “It is the one thing that makes a man irrational, unpredictable, and puts him on the edge of insanity. He fell in love.”

  “I see,” Jasper said. “Unusual experience for his lordship. Sir, shall I prepare a room for you? You will be staying, won’t you?” “Is there any chance that I might have some dinner?”

  “Oh sir, of course, sir,” Jasper returned.

  It seemed to Mason that the butler was relieved to have him in the house should his master suddenly awaken.

  “I’ll bring you something right away, sir. Should I serve you in the dining room?”

  “The study will do fine, Jasper,” Mason retorted, suddenly feeling very blue-blooded.

  While Jasper went to the kitchen, Mason returned to the study. He gathered up the remains of the broken vase and flowers and, finding no place to put them, left them in a neat pile on the floor for Jasper to take care of. Circling Huntscliff’s massive desk, he pulled out a chair and sat down. Leaning back, he put his feet up on the desk, crossing them at the ankles, and waited for his meal. It would undoubtedly be fine fare.

  When he had finished dinner, he drank the coffee that was intended for the master of the house, smoked one of Huntscliff’s imported cigars, and had another glass of brandy before he used the bell cord and had Jasper show him to his room to retire.

  Mason requested a full English breakfast the next morning, which he had Jasper bring upstairs to his bedroom. Sitting up in bed, he leisurely consumed his bacon, eggs, grilled tomatoes and mushrooms, and thickly buttered his toast, to which he added a layer of marmalade. He washed it all down with freshly brewed tea. Stretching his arms out, Mason gave a satisfied yawn. Then he got out of bed and rang for Jasper. The butler almost instantly appeared.

  “I take it that everything was to your satisfaction?” Jasper asked wryly, seeing the practically li
cked-clean plates.

  Giving his middle a tap, Mason replied, “Very satisfactory.”

  Jasper took away the breakfast tray and returned a short time later with a basin, a pitcher of water, and a shaving kit. Mason declined Jasper’s offer to shave him. Having seen the seedy side of life as a constable for many years, he didn’t trust anyone to hold anything of a sharp nature to his throat. With a newfound regal flare, he excused Jasper.

  After taking care of his basic morning needs, he dressed and went downstairs to Huntscliff’s study, leaving the door open, and waited. He was good at waiting. Most of his assignments involved waiting of some sort, but usually in less comfortable surroundings. Never in a soft leather chair with a plush footstool to rest his feet, and never with imported cigars or the finest brandy within arm’s reach or a butler to bring in the morning paper. This type of waiting was a far cry from his usual vigils, which mainly consisted of dark musty cellars, the backside of some thorny hedges or a spot outside in the freezing rain.

  Mason picked up the newspaper and started to read. He was just about to turn to the last page when he heard the first groan, followed by stumbling footsteps, and then a wail.

  “Jasper!”

  Instead of immediately heeding his master’s call, a fearful-looking Jasper came running to the study and stood in the doorway. “Sir. Lord Huntscliff. He’s awakened!”

  “Yes, I heard,” Mason calmly acknowledged. “Don’t worry. I’ll go up with you.”

  “Oh thank you, sir,” Jasper said gratefully.

  While a nervous Jasper waited impatiently in the doorway, Mason leisurely set the paper aside, put out his cigar, and drank the last remains of his brandy before he stood up and led the way to slowly climb the stairs, seemingly unaffected by Huntscliff’s repeated wails.

  Deeming it would have taken too much effort, Garren refrained from lifting his head when the door to his bedroom opened. Instead, he sat on the edge of his bed, his feet planted on the floor, with his elbows on his knees supporting his head, which felt as heavy as a cannon ball.

  “What took you so long?” he demanded of Jasper. Without waiting for an answer, he ordered, “Fetch me a headache powder.”

  His servant started to comply but someone stopped him. “That won’t help you,” he said. “I’ll mix up one of my own remedies.”

  Though he recognized the voice of his colleague, his brandy-fogged brain had forgotten Mason’s arrival the night before. Garren lifted his head, a mistake, since the quick action sent pain rocketing through his brain.

  “What are you doing here?” he uttered in a low growl before setting his head back down in the nest of his hands.

  “Remedy first, reason second,” Mason responded, disappearing with Jasper behind the door. When he came back he was holding a glass filled with an odd-colored liquid.

  “Drink this,” he ordered, shoving the glass into his hand.

  Garren baulked until the drums in his head began to bang harder. With a few swift gulps, he downed the awful tasting brew.

  “Good,” Mason commented, taking the glass from him. “Now lie back and give it a chance to work. I’ll be back in a bit.” Like an obedient dog, Garren followed Mason’s instructions. He was in too much pain to do otherwise.

  Three hours later, Mason returned. Finding Garren awake, he asked, “Feeling any better?”

  “Wonderful,” Garren grunted. “Instead of a brass horn blaring inside my head, it’s now a dull bass drum thumping.”

  “Ahh, you’re improving,” Mason said, smirking.

  Garren found no humor in Mason’s words. He struggled to his feet. Minus his boots and jacket, he was still in the clothes he had traveled in from Mannington Manor. Moving like his legs were made of rubber, he wobbled over to a chair and dropped into it, both he and the chair letting out a groan.

  “What are you doing here? Come here to see me suffer, to rub salt into the open wound, to laugh at me for letting Lord Avery Flemington steal her right from under my nose?”

  “No, I didn’t come to kick a man when he’s down. I’m here on assignment,” Mason answered.

  “Assignment,” Garren huffed disbelievingly, letting out a moan as the sound of his own voice ripped through his head. Lowering his voice, he asked, “What are you talking about?”

  “Lord Somerville has commissioned me to bring you back to Mannington Manor,” Mason replied.

  Garren gave his colleague a sneer. “You’re not making any sense. Why would Nyle want me to return to Mannington Manor? I’m finished there. The case is solved,” Garren said with the brush of his hand, as if he could sweep away its memory.

  “Not to Lord Somerville’s satisfaction. Very careless of you, Huntscliff, not to tie up the loose ends. Seems you left some unfinished business, mainly his sister, Lady Thora,” Mason said sternly. Then he lightened his voice and went on with a smile. “Lord Somerville requests that you escort his sister to the wedding of Lord Flemington and Lady Lauryn Mayfield.”

  It took a moment for Mason’s words to penetrate. When they did, Garren’s mouth dropped. Ignoring the pain in his head, Garren stood up and grabbed the smaller man by his shoulders. “You mean Thora, she not . . . she’s not marrying Flemington?”

  “No,” Mason returned with a laugh. “All those times we saw her with Lord Flemington she was just helping the poor sod, him being the bashful type, to get up enough pluck to ask Lady Lauryn to marry him. According to her brother, Lady Thora’s logic was that Flemington couldn’t be the killer of women and at the same time want to propose to one.”

  “As investigators, we both could argue that point,” Garren said, receiving a nod from Mason. “And someday soon I’ll have to set Thora right about such foolish thinking, but for now I have a much more important matter to discuss with her.”

  Mason gave Garren a knowing grin and watched as the big man unsteadily raced to his bedroom door, opened it, and roared for his butler. When Jasper appeared, Garren started to rattle off instructions. “Jasper, I need you to draw me a bath, then help me to shave. In my present condition, I don’t trust myself with a razor. Then I want you to pack my best clothes and tell the footman to get my carriage ready.”

  “You’re leaving again, sir?” Jasper asked, amazed by his master’s remarkable recovery.

  “Yes, and while I’m gone I want this house scrubbed and polished from top to bottom. I want it to sparkle like new silver! Send for some flowers. I want flowers in every room. Tomorrow I want to have this room painted and take down these dark curtains. Put up something light and soft, something feminine.”

  “But, my lord, you just had this room done,” Jasper exclaimed, obviously bewildered.

  “Yes, but that time it was painted for a bachelor. Now I want it fit for a bride,” Garren announced.

  At Mannington Manor, Thora and Nyle were seeing the last of their guests slowly depart. The first, and not surprisingly, were the Mayfields. Excitement showed in the eyes of both mother and daughter as they settled into their carriage, and as their carriage rolled away, Thora could see them sitting with their heads together busily making plans for the wedding which was going to be held at Lord Flemington’s estate in a fortnight.

  The Mayfields were followed by the Langless family, including their new addition of Sandler Leedworthy. Privately, Lord Langless told Nyle that he had given his permission for Leedworthy to court Floris, but that the courtship would have to last at the very least a year before any proposal of marriage could be made. He wanted to ensure that it was love and not infatuation on his daughter’s part, and Leedworthy agreed to honor the stipulation.

  Lord Flemington was the last to leave. He, too, had much to prepare for his upcoming nuptials, but before he departed he strolled with Thora in the garden.

  “How can I ever thank you, Lady Thora? Without your help and support I would
have never had the courage to ask Lauryn to be my wife.”

  Thora smiled. “My dear, Lord Flemington, you can thank me by being a good husband to my friend.”

  With his eyes glistening, he picked up her hand and kissed it. Looping her arm in his, Thora escorted him to his carriage. Nyle joined her and they both waved as his carriage drove off.

  “He’ll make a good husband,” Nyle commented.

  Thora looked at her brother and gave a wistful sigh. “Yes, I’m sure he loves Lauryn very much and will make her very happy.” She turned and started to walk back toward the garden.

  “Where are you going?” Nyle called after her.

  “Just to pick some flowers,” Thora threw over her shoulder.

  Nyle watched his sister as she strolled along the path that led to the garden. He knew that after selecting a choice bouquet, Thora would ride down to the church grounds to place them on Ivey’s grave. He knew in time her visits to the gravesite would become less frequent, especially since Ivey’s murderer, Viscount Simon-North, would soon be wearing a hangman’s noose, but for now it gave her an inner peace that seemed to strengthen her. If only there was a cure for the ache she bore in her heart, but there was only one man who possessed the power to heal it. As he returned inside, he muttered to himself, “What the devil is taking Garren so long?”

  As Nyle had thought, Thora, after gathering an armful of fresh flowers, went down to the stables and had one of the grooms saddle her horse. She rode down to the churchyard to visit with Ivey and, as she often did many times before, she sat on the grass talking as if she and her friend were on the back terrace enjoying a lazy summer day sipping sweetened lemon water. She chatted about Floris and Sandler Leedworthy. She confessed her mistake in thinking him a villain, and how she discovered that Leedworthy was indeed a match for Floris. While others considered him a bore, Floris found Leedworthy a fascinating source of knowledge, providing him with what he needed most, someone who listened.