by Allison Lane
Since William wanted him to observe, Andrew collected a candle and examined the body. It had been rolled to its present position, judging from the blotches on the marble floor. Why Gramling had moved it remained a mystery. It couldn’t have been for identification. The wound position showed that Sir Nigel had landed face up. And since the impact had split the skull, there was no question that he was dead.
Sir Nigel’s costume was odd, though – a shirt pulled loosely over breeches. No cravat. No coat. No stockings. No shoes. Only a man in a tearing hurry would leave his room in such disarray, especially a man as fastidious as Sir Nigel. It would seem that his errand had been even more urgent than a stable fire.
Yet Gramling knew nothing about it. Very curious.
The other injuries were equally odd. Close examination showed abrasions on every fingertip. One side of his neck was bruised. The largest toenail on his right foot was torn. And blood flecked his right sleeve. From the fall? The fingers? The toe? Or was there another source?
Andrew circled the body, his eyes straining for clues – the dark paneling swallowed most of the candlelight. Nothing on the body explained why Sir Nigel had risen after midnight and tumbled to his death. If he had wished to raid the larder, he would have donned a dressing gown. If he had fallen ill, he would have summoned Simms. Sir Nigel had never shown the least regard for staff, so it would never cross his mind to let a servant sleep if he wanted service. He would have dressed himself only if he’d received a message so urgent that he could not wait for Simms to attend him.
Andrew could think of no emergency that would prompt Sir Nigel to abandon his rituals. And who could have brought such a message without the staff’s knowledge?
Fields House had only three exits. The butler’s suite was adjacent to the hall, so anyone seeking admittance at the front door would awaken him. The housekeeper’s rooms adjoined the kitchen, making it difficult to enter that way undetected. Mrs. Harper’s keen hearing was legendary. Woe betide a maid who planned an assignation. The only other door was in the conservatory, but Gramling always checked the locks before retiring – as Andrew knew from experience. He’d once convinced Kevin to sneak out for a late-night adventure. The door had been locked when Kevin returned. Instead of waking Gramling, Kevin had climbed the ivy to his open window, fallen, and broken a leg.
Andrew shook off the memory. Gramling was as set in his ways as Sir Nigel, so the conservatory door would be securely locked. Unless one of the servants had heard something, they might never know why Sir Nigel had risen. William would have to question each one in private. None of them would contradict Gramling before the others – or even clarify his statements.
One of the maids swayed – Sally, who had cleaned the nursery floor when Kevin was a lad. Her face was stark white.
“Perhaps the staff should retire to the kitchen,” he murmured to William. “They needn’t stay with the body. You can question them when you finish here.”
William glanced at Sally and nodded. “Good idea.” A word won Gramling’s agreement.
Opening the servants’ door set the candles flickering, drawing Andrew’s eyes to something white on the stairs. He climbed up to investigate, leaving William and Gramling deep in conversation. Four steps from the top, the right banister had snagged a white thread. Three steps higher, the left banister clutched another.
Andrew bit his lip, frowning. Unlike the divided stair at Seabrook Manor, the main stair at Fields House was straight and six feet wide. The upper hallway stretched from Sir Nigel’s bedchamber on the left to his private office-cum-library on the right. No light glowed in either direction. But the right end of the hall table was askew.
Andrew tested its weight, estimating angles as he paced off distances. Nodding, he returned to the body. Confirmation took only a glance.
“Did you find something?” asked William. His voice shook.
This was the real reason William had asked him to come. William was so squeamish that he rarely hunted and never tolerated sickrooms. Death was worse. Violent death worse yet.
Andrew covered Sir Nigel’s head with his handkerchief, hiding the gaping wound. With the worst damage out of sight, William stepped closer.
“Look at his shirt.” Andrew pointed to Sir Nigel’s right waist. “See this tear?”
“Of course.”
“There is another snag on the left shoulder. Simms would never allow a shirt in this condition into Sir Nigel’s wardrobe.”
“True,” confirmed Gramling. “He is very particular.”
“So the damage occurred this evening. Now look at this.” He led William up the stairs and pointed to the threads. “Who cleans this part of the house?”
“Sally.”
“She is also particular, unless she’s changed in the years I’ve been gone.”
Gramling frowned. “She’s a good worker.”
Andrew nodded. “So these must also have occurred this evening.” He pointed to the table. “I suspect that Sir Nigel tripped over the table, staggered onto the stairs, bounced from this banister to the other, then tumbled down.”
“But how could he trip?” demanded Gramling. “His bedroom is that way.” He pointed left.
“But his library is to the right,” said Andrew.
“Why would he stagger to the stairs?” asked William. “There is plenty of space in which to catch his balance.”
“That is true if he were walking, but not if he were running. Only running provides enough speed to bounce off both railings of a six-foot-wide stair. And only running would rip his toenail so badly. The pain from a smashed toe would throw him further off balance.”
William stared at the scene – the table, the stairs, the threads on the banisters. “What would possess a man to rise in the middle of the night, dress, go to his library, then race back toward his room?”
“Without a candle. No one carrying illumination would run into a familiar table. And he would have dropped a candle when he tripped or when he hit the first railing. Yet there is no sign of one. Did someone remove it?” Andrew looked at Gramling.
“We moved Sir Nigel so we could examine him without stepping in blood, but we did nothing else.”
Andrew shook his head. “So he was wandering the house after midnight without a light. Odd.”
Gramling said nothing.
William let out a long sigh. “Definitely odd. Perhaps one of the servants heard something that may help.”
“I doubt it.” Gramling was firm.
“Nevertheless, I must ask,” said William. “Where is Peter?”
“Out. He was gone when I went to wake him.”
Everyone in the neighborhood knew that Sir Nigel had confined Peter to the estate, turned away all callers, and ordered nearby innkeepers to bar him from the premises. Andrew thought it a cow-handed way to discipline a gentleman of two-and-twenty, but he didn’t know Peter well enough to judge. Kevin and William had been of an age, with Chloe and Andrew a year younger. Peter was five years younger yet and had remained in the nursery until after the older boys left for school.
William sighed. “Perhaps something in the library or bedchamber will explain Sir Nigel’s behavior. As long as we’re up here, we should look.” He headed down the hall.
The library was a mess.
“Nothing seems disturbed,” said Gramling. “Sir Nigel allowed no one to touch his papers. The piles have become rather untidy this past year – indicative of his growing agitation.”
Andrew nodded. He’d heard most of the area gossip in the two months he’d been home, either directly or from Jinks, his batman. Between Sir Nigel’s incompetent investments and Peter’s gaming, the family fortune was gone. But that should have made Sir Nigel cling to his rituals even more closely.
So the library raised new questions. Two of the piles on the desk were untidy. One of the neat pyramids of books dotting the floor had fallen over. The poker leaned drunkenly against an andiron, and a partially burned night candle sat on the mantel.
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“No answers here,” decided William. “Let’s have a look at his bedchamber.”
Sir Nigel’s room was also disheveled. Sheets trailed onto the floor, as if he had leaped from his bed. In the dressing room, a nightshirt dangled from the corner of a chair, the wardrobe door sagged open, and two bureau drawers hung out, all indicative of frantic speed. But if he had been so rushed, why change at all? The dressing gown would have been faster. The nightshirt faster yet. There was no evidence that he’d meant to go outside.
“I cannot understand it.” Gramling shook his head. “He never dressed himself. Nor did he wake in the night. If he was ill, he surely would have summoned Simms.”
“Illness would not have driven him to the library,” said Andrew. “And certainly not without a candle.” Sir Nigel’s night candle sat on the bedside table. The one in the library had not come from here.
“Unless he feared he’d swallowed poison and hoped to find an antidote.” William shook his head.
Andrew swallowed a snort. “Unlikely. If he’d consulted an herbal, it should have been on the desk. Even Sir Nigel would not put it neatly away, then race down the hall in the dark. And who would poison him, anyway?”
“No one here.” Gramling stiffened. “The servants’ hall eats the same food as the master.”
“How many night candles—”
A shout from downstairs halted Andrew’s question. The sounds of retching followed.
“Master Peter,” said Gramling with a sigh. “Or Sir Peter, I should say now.” His hands shook, making him seem even older.
They returned to the hall.
Peter was on his knees, much the worse for wine, though he had spewed his most recent intake across the floor. The handkerchief lay crumpled beside Sir Nigel’s body.
“I should have locked the door,” moaned Gramling.
Andrew remained in the shadows as Gramling and William helped Peter to his feet.
If not for Gramling’s identification, Andrew would not have recognized the boy, for he looked nothing like Kevin – or Chloe, for that matter. Kevin had stood six feet tall, with powerful shoulders thoroughly wasted on the sensitive scholar. Peter was half a foot shorter and very slender. Granted, he might yet fill out, but dissipation already ravaged his face.
“Who knocked him on the head?” demanded Peter, flinching away from the corpse.
“He fell down the stairs.”
“Thank God!”
Shock twisted Gramling’s face.
“You rejoice at your father’s demise?” asked William quietly.
“Should have killed him myself. The bashtard was sho closed-fisted, he didn’t deserve to live. I couldn’t visit London. Couldn’t shee friendsh.” His sluggish tongue proved that Peter was very drunk indeed.
“Did you awaken Sir Nigel this evening?” asked Andrew.
Peter jumped. “I wasn’t here.”
“What time did you leave?” William’s voice hardened as he caught the implication.
“Half pash eleven. He was shnoring loud enough to wake the dead.” Hearing his own words, he grimaced. “Always loud. Shnore. Talk. Order about. Hated the bashtard.”
“He was a champion snorer,” agreed Gramling as Peter sank into reflection. “Like to bring the roof down.”
“Where did you go this evening?” When Peter didn’t answer, William tapped him on the shoulder and repeated the question.
Peter flinched, lost his balance, and fell down. “Go? Game at the Golden Bull. Won a monkey.” He giggled. “Monkey. Monkey. Won tonight. Firsht time in weeksh. Too bad Jacob out of town. Won’t believe…” Laughter changed to hiccups and vomiting, and he passed out.
“You won’t learn anything tonight,” said Andrew, shaking his head.
“Just as well Sir Nigel is gone,” muttered Gramling. “There’d be a row at breakfast over this. Won a monkey. ’Twon’t atone for last week’s losses. Nothing can.” Shaking his head, he rolled Peter onto his back.
“I’ll carry him up,” offered Andrew.
William nodded, then headed for the kitchen.
But when Andrew hoisted Peter to his shoulder, his leg buckled. Cursing, he had to accept Gramling’s help on the stairs. Would the damned leg never heal?
A night candle sat on Peter’s shaving stand. He’d bunched rugs under the coverlet to simulate a sleeper. Having gone to such lengths to hide his trip to the Golden Bull, he would have avoided waking Sir Nigel.
Leaving Gramling to put Peter to bed, Andrew joined William in the servants’ hall.
Even speaking in private, the servants added nothing useful to Gramling’s account. Mrs. Harper had heard Sir Nigel snoring when she retired at eleven. Cook had not awakened until Gramling sounded the alarm. Simms swore that Sir Nigel had not summoned him. No one slept near enough to his room to contradict him, for Peter’s valet and the last footman had been dismissed a week earlier, victims of Peter’s gaming losses.
Andrew wondered about Simms, for the man seemed surly. But that may have been from the realization that he must find a new position.
In the end, Gramling’s account stood. Sir Nigel had risen, dressed himself, shouted, then fallen to his death – an easy thing to do when racing about in the dark.
“Accident, without a doubt,” decided William when the interviews were complete. “We may never know what woke him, but he obviously tripped over the table. Lay him out and clean the hall. There will be visitors in the morning.”
“Visitors?” Gramling’s voice quavered.
“The curious, at the very least. Don’t forget to hang the hatchment and notify the vicar. Sir Peter is in no condition to see to the formalities. And send a note to Sir Nigel’s solicitor.”
When Gramling nodded, William and Andrew left.
They said little on the drive home. William was clearly relieved that the matter was finished. Andrew agreed with the verdict, but he hated unanswered questions. And he was convinced that he’d missed something important.
* * *
Chapter 3
Sunday
Andrew drove William’s curricle between the Fields House gateposts and headed across the park.
Questions about Sir Nigel’s death continued to plague him. Maybe it was because war had taught him to distrust the unknown where danger so often lurked. So he tried to tie up loose ends lest they cause trouble.
Waterloo had abounded with examples of such trouble. A messenger had lost his way for a time, delaying Blücher’s arrival and nearly costing them the victory. On the other side, Marshal Ney had failed to spike the British guns after a morning charge overran them – his troops had forgotten to bring nails. Those same guns had ultimately defeated the French.
So Andrew hated loose ends. Until he knew why Sir Nigel had gone to the library in the middle of the night, he couldn’t let the matter rest.
His need for answers fueled his growing disenchantment with the army. Wellington had avidly sought intelligence, even employing his own survey officers to verify and augment the information supplied by official sources. As a result, he had rarely been surprised. But the duke would no longer be in charge on the field, and other generals were less particular, too often ignoring facts that didn’t fit their own assessments, then dismissing the resulting setbacks as inevitable.
The American campaign was a case in point. Old-timers recalled some of the reasons England had lost the first American war. But many of the leaders in that earlier clash had refused to admit fault, blaming the surrender on other things. By relying on those earlier reports, the current leaders had made the same mistakes. The result was another defeat for England’s finest, culminating in the bloody massacre at New Orleans.
Don’t think about it, he reminded himself. You will be back in uniform soon. It does no good to curse shortsighted men.
He concentrated on finding the smoothest path through the holes and ruts that constituted the Fields House drive. In the cold light of day, the grounds looked abandoned. Two trees had toppled in s
ome forgotten storm – long enough ago that the bark was peeling off the trunks. Bindweed encroached on the drive. In spots, its roots were all that held the drive together. Fallen stone left gaping holes in walls, some large enough to allow a carriage through. Overgrown tangles had once been Lady Fields’s roses, now massive enough that she must have ceased caring for them long before her death.
Kevin would have wept to see his birthright now. Perhaps his death had been a blessing. Or perhaps it had precipitated this neglect. If Peter had remained a younger son, Sir Nigel could have refused to cover his debts.
Stop this, he ordered his mind. Recuperation allowed too much time for thought. The past was over, so wishing for change did no good.
But he could not expunge Kevin from his memory. It had been seven years, but his death remained clear. Returning to Fields House made it worse, for he could see Kevin everywhere – fishing in the stream, riding across the hills, directing his playmates in scenes from Shakespeare or Greek mythology.
“Stop haunting me!” he shouted, startling the horses.
But Kevin remained, turning accusatory eyes on him.
It was time to leave Devonshire. As soon as this last formality was over, he would collect Jinks and head for London. It didn’t matter that he could ride for only an hour or two. He could occupy himself during each rest by drawing. And even if he managed only two or three stages a day, he would reach London on time. A fortnight of easy travel would strengthen his leg.
His purpose today was to offer condolences to Peter, then conclude the investigation. Perhaps Sir Nigel had said something at dinner that would explain his later behavior. And maybe Gramling would remember more now that shock had receded. He would also have been in the dining room last night.
Tethering the team at the foot of the steps, Andrew plied the knocker.
Gramling led him straight to the library, having long accepted William and Andrew as unofficial family members. Fitch treated Kevin and Chloe the same way at Seabrook.
“I thought I said no visitors,” snapped Peter the moment he spotted Andrew. He was rifling the desk.
