The Ingenious Mechanical Devices Box Set

by Kara Jorgensen

  “At least he should be done soon. I can’t imagine that this could go on much longer.”

  “Really? Because he asked me the same question four times. Four times.” Her shoulders sagged as she rubbed her eyes and leaned back against him. “We should have just buried him in the garden. I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, but I don’t know if he is worth all this fuss.”

  A small smile played on Eilian’s lips as he leaned closer and whispered, “Sorry, darling, but I can’t blow everyone up to keep the police away.”

  “We’re awful,” she chuckled. “I know I’m being cruel, but it would have been easier that way. I can’t imagine there are many murders here, and if he can’t find who robbed us, I doubt he will figure out who killed Nash.” She sighed, hugging Eilian’s arms. “Poor Nadir. He doesn’t know what he’s in for tomorrow.”

  “If Purcell doesn’t drag him out of bed tonight, he will be lucky. I don’t think Dr. Sturgis has any say in what he does. Then again, he may not be done with us today.”

  Eilian’s head turned to the door as it creaked open and Patrick’s white head peaked out followed by Purcell’s hard features. His light eyes surveyed the tense, careworn faces of the servants sitting on the couches before landing on the earl and countess at the window. As he motioned to his men to leave their posts by the door, Eilian tightened his grip on Hadley’s shoulder.

  “That will be all for today. If you are to be questioned further, one of my men will come to summon you. It would be in your best interest to go willingly.”

  A communal groan echoed through the room, but the sergeant didn’t appear to notice.

  “You may return to your duties, except for you, Lord and Lady Dorset.”

  With a nod to the servants, they filed out while their master waited at the window for Purcell to approach. Eilian swallowed hard but stood tall as Hadley rose beside him. The sergeant’s gaze never wavered from his wife’s form. If he could have, he would have kept his arm protectively around her for fear of what the policeman might threaten. Purcell sauntered over, fishing in his pocket for a moment before pulling out a miniature gun. Hadley reached out to snatch it from his palm, but he pulled it back out of reach.

  “Yours, I presume, Lady Dorset?” When she nodded, he continued coolly, “We found it near where you said you stumbled upon Nadir Talbot. How did it get there?”

  Her lip curled. “Am I being interrogated again?”

  “I’m the one asking the questions, your ladyship.”

  “I told you, I ran over to help him. It must have fallen out of my hand when we moved him inside. Why did you not ask me this when you were hounding me before?”

  “Why are you in possession of a derringer?”

  Eilian’s arm tightened around her as she replied sharply, “Because I live in London. If you were a woman, would you walk around unarmed with all sorts of vile creatures lurking about? It’s for protection.”

  “Is this really necessary?” Eilian asked, edging between the sergeant and his wife. Even if he was a policeman, he was lucky she didn’t have her derringer.

  “It is. Mr. Talbot and Mr. Nash were both shot. Was it possible that you saw Mr. Talbot running in the orangery and shot him by accident?”

  “No! I told you, we were awoken by a sound and then heard another gunshot a few moments later.”

  “That’s what you say.”

  “That’s what we all say because that is what happened. For the tenth and last time, we woke up because there was a loud noise, and as we got out of bed, we heard it again. We went downstairs with Patrick and found Nadir Talbot unconscious and Mr. Nash dead. Whatever you are looking for, Sergeant Purcell, you are looking in the wrong place. Now, if you will excuse me, I have better things to do than repeat myself.”

  Dislodging her arm from Eilian’s grasp, Hadley stormed out of the room, her muddied silk slippers slapping against the wooden boards. When he turned back Purcell’s sharp gaze was still locked on the door. Eilian shifted uncomfortably and supported his disarticulated prosthesis with his other arm.

  “You should learn to control your wife,” the officer growled as he turned his penetrating glare to the earl.

  Eilian bristled. “She’s right, you know. No one on my staff has a motive, and even if we disliked Mr. Nash, Hadley and I were in bed at the time.” He held his hand out expectantly. “You have no right to hold her gun. Give it to me.”

  Purcell’s eyes bored into him, challenging the earl to stand down, but when he showed no signs of relenting, he huffed and dropped the gun in the nobleman’s hand. “Only because it hasn’t been fired, but neither of you are to leave town, got it?”

  “Well, we will be staying for the funeral, won’t we? Or have you not told his widow yet? You really should. You seem much closer to her than we are.”

  Without giving Purcell the opportunity to reply, Eilian left. Passing Patrick at the door, ready to lead the men out, Eilian trudged up the steps and cut across the upper arcades to their bedroom. Anger and sadness welled in his chest, twisting and knotting until all that was left was a clot of misery. They would be stuck in Folkesbury for God knows how long now when all he wanted was to go back to London— to anywhere really. Any place where he would feel useful and no one knew of his earldom.

  On top of everything, Nash was dead. Any second chances he thought he had to reconnect with his father were gone now. It had always seemed so easy to fix. His father had loved him and would have welcomed him with open arms if he had changed his ways, but that never happened. It would never happen. Now, there were no more chances, no what-ifs, only what was. Nash’s death had solidified that. Closing the dressing room door, he rested his head on the cool wood. He squeezed his eyes shut until the burning ceased.

  Once again, he had acted too late.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The House of Stone and Bones

  On the day of the funeral, the turnout was even worse than Eilian imagined. Less than a dozen people showed up to fill the pews in the old stone church, including Mr. Nash. Most would have blamed it on the rain, which pounded against the stained glass windows and beat through the clothing of anyone lingering outdoors for more than a few moments, but Eilian knew that despite living nearly his entire life in Folkesbury, Randall Nash had made few friends. Maybe that was his lot in life, to lose everything he ever thought he could possess: his parents, his home, his reputation, and finally his grandfather and cousin. What affection he had with his wife, Eilian would never know. In the front pew beside Pilcrow, she sat dry-eyed reciting prayers and singing hymns in widow black, paying little heed to the man stretched in the coffin before her or the mourners sitting behind her.

  Eilian tried to keep his head down as if in prayer but found it nearly impossible with the coffin sitting only a few yards away. Every time he looked at it, he pictured Nash with the bullet hole in his back lying beside the pool, his grey eyes staring ahead as the blood drained out of him. Eyes so like his father’s and his own. Ripping his gaze from the casket, he studied the elaborately vaulted timber ceiling before trailing to the dingy plaster that coated the church’s ancient stone. What he wouldn’t give to tear it off and examine the building’s underpinnings. From the shape of the arches and the style of the figures in the windows, he guessed it to be from the fourteenth century. Under the pew in front of them, he spotted a flat, engraved stone as long as a man. Surely the dead in Folkesbury must outnumber the living, he thought as the vicar’s droning voice sharpened, breaking his reverie. Now he remembered why he had avoided church since leaving home.

  “Heavenly Father, welcome Randall Fitzwilliam Nash into your kingdom and—”

  A ragged breath echoed through the stone and timber church. When he looked up expecting to find that his widow finally broke down, he found Mrs. Nash and her lady’s maid reading as if it was a normal service. He glanced at Hadley, itching to look over his shoulder to see who cared enough about Randall Nash to mourn him, but with each shift or squirm, he felt the vi
car’s cold gaze upon him and Hadley’s elbow in his ribs. As he put his head down, staring at the metal hand before him, another stifled sob broke from the back of the church. Skirts swished in time with the quick patter of footsteps, but by the time Eilian dared to turn, he could only make out the back of a woman as she slipped between the massive doors. Nadir rose from the last pew and followed her out.

  ***

  At the dismissal of the clergyman, they funneled out of the rows of wooden pews and into the rain, their exit marked by the thwump of umbrellas opening. Most of the attendees drifted down the cobbled path toward town, ignoring the group of hired men raising the casket onto their shoulders. As Eilian and Hadley followed the coffin processing from the church to the family crypt, a familiar face fell in beside them. The handsome Egyptian flashed a roguish smile and tipped his hat, sending a dribble of water over the brim. Peeking from the edge of Nadir’s top hat was a flash of purple silk and a strip of gauze. Hadley’s eyes returned to Rubella Nash at the head of the procession beside the vicar. On her right, Pilcrow held an umbrella over her head, seemingly oblivious to the current of water running along the ribbon of her hat and down the length of her narrow back, while on her left, a man had linked arms with her. From behind, Hadley couldn’t be sure who he was. For all she knew, the woman could have had family nearby, but as he turned his head to speak to her, the manicured curl of a mustache appeared at his lip. Hadley released a silent groan. She had hoped not to see the arrogant fool again for the duration of their stay. Nadir raised a dark brow at her grimace, ready to back away if it was meant for him, but upon seeing him, she grinned and twitched a finger for him to stay at her side.

  “What was that about?”

  “I hadn’t expected to see the sergeant today. Anyway, how are you feeling, Nadir?” she whispered as he fell into step with them.

  “My head has been ringing for days, but I’m much better, thank you. Any leads on Mr. Nash’s killer?”

  She shook her head. “Not really. They found shells from three bullets in the garden, all from revolvers, but I don’t expect Purcell and his men to figure out who did it. If Mr. Nash treated others the way he treated us, I can’t imagine he was without enemies.”

  “Well, they’re not exactly Scotland Yard, are they? They’re at least thorough interrogators. It felt like I was sitting through the bloody Inquisition. Did you know they have forbidden me from leaving until this whole thing is settled? My publisher is livid. Several of my friends have threatened to come down and raise Cain to get Purcell to back-off. Not that I think it would do any good or that they would actually do it, but no one is pleased.”

  “He said the same to us. We may be taking up permanent residency at Brasshurst at this rate.” Leaning in closer, Hadley whispered, “Honestly, I expected a better turnout. Nash was murdered after all, so shouldn’t everyone have come to pay their respects or at least to gawk?”

  “I thought the same thing, but then again, Folkesbury isn’t London. They sweep scandals under the rug here, not call the press and print it in the society pages.”

  “Still, I expected a journalist or two.”

  A wry smile crossed his lips. “Watch what you wish for, Lady Dorset. They will probably be banging down your door tomorrow.”

  She watched as Eilian wandered off with the umbrella, his fingers unconsciously rubbing the gold band of his signet ring while his prosthesis held the fabric canopy a foot away from her. Frowning, she stepped back under it, pulling Nadir along with her. When she was certain Eilian was too far in his mind to hear, she asked, “How is your cousin doing?”

  “Good as new, thank you. It’s strange; it’s like she’s a new woman or she was until today. She wanted to come to the internment, but she didn’t think she had the strength to get through it or that Mrs. Nash would like her there.”

  “I thought I saw her in the back of the church. Why would Mrs. Nash mind her there?”

  Nadir shrugged, his brown eyes trailing to the muddied path before rising to Eilian Sorrell. The earl watched trees pass, veiled in his own thoughts. Stepping closer, Nadir said softly in hopes that the Sorrells would be the only ones who could hear, “The thing is, she was recovering so well. She seemed lighter—happier—than she’s been the entire time I’ve been here, but this whole murder thing has upset her. I don’t know if it’s me getting hit over the head, which I doubt is the cause, or that old Nash was killed, but she’s spooked. She started crying at dinner a few days ago over it, and I’m sure you heard her today during the mass, but she won’t tell me what the problem is. Do you think you could talk to her later? I thought maybe she would say something to you.”

  ***

  Brasshurst’s spires and contorted facades appeared through the gaps in the ornamental garden as the Sorrells crunched across the gravel path from the mausoleum. From the drizzle and sea spray, a grey mist rose from the lawns, casting the house in an otherworldly haze and transforming the orangery into a fortuneteller’s ball. Life danced within, splitting into cascades of green and swirls of red before dissolving into clouds of mist. Eilian blinked the drops of rain from his eyelashes as he pulled off his top hat and wiped his face with his sleeve. Drifting from Hadley’s side, he crossed to the edge of the road where oaks and yews twisted together with strangling vines and bulbous fungi. He scoffed as a cockeyed smile crossed his lips. How odd it was to see so much life.

  Standing before the mausoleum’s horned minarets and faceless saints, he couldn’t help but wonder how many of them rested within. How many forgotten Sorrells came before him only to crumble to dust? Did anyone care about them once those they loved were dead, too? At the internment, they had followed the casket into the tight space, passing sealed niches carved with names, some so old they were clotted with webs so deep the letters were nearly indiscernible. In his years of traveling through Italy, he had seen miles of catacombs where husked bodies hung mummified from the walls or skeletons lay bedecked in jewels, but he had never felt his stomach sink at the sight of so many bodies. All that separated him from his ancestors were thin panels of stone. With each shift or tap, he feared he would rouse them.

  The men from the village raised Nash’s coffin into the vault as the vicar recited a prayer Eilian could no longer remember. He licked his lips, tasting the musty, damp air with each breath, but while the others kept their heads bowed, his grey eyes scanned the familiar names surrounding him. He felt as if he knew them. He could see them going about their lives at Brasshurst. Laurence in his red uniform walking up the gravel drive where Anna waited for him. Alexander bent over with a trowel, his arms encrusted in earth, his concentration never wavering from his plants. His father had escaped—for a time—only to meet the same fate miles away. One day would he, too, be stacked among his ancestors in one of the empty shelves, trapped in a house of stone and bones?

  Eilian hoped not. His entire life had been spent running from that death. No, set him aflame like the Vikings of old or on the edge of the Ganges where he could return to the earth he loved. Laurence had been free for a time until the earldom came to collect him. Even after reading two dozen volumes of journals, he still couldn’t imagine how Laurence settled into this life. To go from the battlefield to the house in a silent wood, which was soon filled with the chatter of children and local gentry, seemed impossible to reconcile with the proud soldier. Was that what his life would become? If the signet ring hadn’t bounced beneath the desk to where the journals had been stashed long ago, would he have ever known that others who came before were so much like him?

  The clergyman’s words fell on deaf ears until he dismissed them with a solemn amen. When they left, the townsmen would wall his cousin behind a faceless stone. Fingering the worn gold of his family’s ring, Eilian drew in a long breath, the taste of history dry on his tongue. As they processed out, he whispered their names only loud enough for them to hear. Jenny, William, Anna, Laurence, Alexander. He lives whose name is spoken.

  “Eilian?”

  H
adley’s hand gently squeezed his arm as he came to. Rain pattered against his scalp, dripping through his hair before trailing down his cheek.

  “You all right?”

  He shrugged. “I guess. I’m just thinking too much.”

  “About?”

  “Whether I will ever be like them,” he replied, slipping his prosthetic arm into hers, and walking toward the house. “I don’t know if I want to or not. Some days I want to be the nobleman my parents envisioned, but most days it sounds abhorrent, if not impossible.”

  Her hand slid over the smooth service of his titanium fingers, the cold metal radiating through her thin leather glove. “Is this about your arm? Replacing a piece of you doesn’t make you lesser; it simply means you have changed. For better or worse is up to you to decide.”

  Against his will, his lips curled into a smile but this time without a trace of irony. “If it was merely my arm, it would be simple. I’m as whole as I will ever be in that regard, but this began long before that.”

  The rain drummed against the trees as if in time with the gravel crunching beneath their feet. The landscape and sky seemed so grey against the green of the lawn, finally rousing from its invernal slumber. Pink buds blinked from the dull wood along the edge of the road. Looking out across his family’s land, his eyes swept over the meadow grass and out to the sea beyond the bluffs. It was out of sight, but if he stilled his mind, he could hear the swish of the waves against the coast. Soon it would all be alive again, and he would be fleeing before he could ever see it. He turned his gaze back to his wife and found her watching him with her red brows knit in concern.

  “My entire life I have been told that nobility comes from blood and that I would become the earl because that’s what I was destined to do as the eldest son. I grew up knowing this would all be my responsibility someday, yet I can’t remember a time I ever relished it. Everyone acted as if I would suddenly understand how to be this earl they always spoke of— that I would grow out of being me. One day you will stop traveling. One day you will settle down. One day you won’t think of any of this foolish nonsense.” His eyes burned as he tightened his lips and flexed away the pain in his prosthesis. “How does one set aside everything they ever worked toward for something they never wanted?”