The Murder at Mansfield Manor: An Inspector Ambrose Story (The Inspector Ambrose Mysteries Book 3)

by I H Laking

  “Molly! Oh, I never meant for you to see Ambrose like this!” Felicity protested, clearly knowing that she had missed her chance to make her brother look presentable. She cleared her throat and turned to him, saying, “Ambrose, do you remember Molly? She was last with us when we were still at school together.” Molly smiled and walked towards them, chewing the apple slowly.

  “Y-yes, I do recall you,” said Ambrose, struggling to regain his composure. This is the most stunning woman I’ve seen in my life, he thought to himself, before finding some more words to stumble over. “I… believe you were planning to study, yes?”

  Molly smiled. “Yes, that’s correct my dear – I’ve almost completed my course now, too – modern architecture, it’s such a bore.” She threw her hand up to her forehead in a dramatic gesture.

  Ambrose smiled as he felt his cheeks flushing. He tried to find something more to say, and found himself loosely grasping at the first thing he could think of. “I see you have your umbrella with you! It’s barely snowing now – were you keen on taking a night stroll?”

  She looked at him and smiled gently. “No, not a stroll, but I love to step outside and catch a glimpse of the moon on nights like these,” she pointed to a door that led outside, “Would you care to come and have a look with me?”

  Ambrose felt his heart drop. What on earth was wrong with him? He never felt emotions like these, especially not with any of his sister’s attempted matches. He found himself stammering again, but managed to force out, “No, I’m afraid I can’t – we just came for some food, and now we’ve got that, it’s time to be on our way.”

  Ambrose turned and bounded up the stairs, heading for the hallway and the second floor. His heart was pounding as he heard Molly’s voice rising from the kitchen in the distance: “But you didn’t get anything to eat, love!”

  What have I got myself into? Ambrose thought as he sped towards the relative safety of his room.

  The next morning, Ambrose rose early to the sound of Clunk clumsily knocking into a table in the hallway. The sun had yet to rise, and the embers in the room’s fireplace had burned down low. Ambrose got up and began his morning exercises – wide jumps and skipping to maintain peak fitness, and stretches to ensure he didn’t pull any muscles during the day. After he completed his routine, he headed over to the window. Even as he approached it, Ambrose could feel the chill from outside. He peeked out between the curtains and was greeted by a land blanketed in white.

  Looking down, Ambrose could see the path that led to the Guest House, a separate lodging that was only open to important dignitaries when they came to stay. The Guest House was simple compared to the Manor, with only a single storey and three rooms. It was the one place Ambrose and Felicity were never allowed to visit as children, and Ambrose remembered how they would speculate about what was inside. He wondered whether he might finally get a chance to step inside the Guest House this trip to satisfy his childhood curiosity.

  As he returned his attention to the white expanse of the main lawn, Ambrose caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. A mound of snow exploded, and a strange looking man with wild red hair and a wide moustache jumped out and started running towards the Manor in an ungainly fashion. His face had turned somewhat blue from the cold, and flakes of snow trailed behind him. He must be freezing, Ambrose thought as the man passed from view. Why would he be hiding in the snow like that?

  Setting the strange occurrence aside, Ambrose turned from the window and began his morning grooming ritual. Wherever he went, he began each day with a shower, a shave and a meticulous styling of his hair. As he combed his thick black hair into place, he thought about meeting Molly the previous night. He hadn’t expected the wave of emotion that had swept over him when he saw her. All his work as a detective required clear thinking and calm thoughts; and if Percy’s note had been correct, he needed to avoid all distractions during his time at the Manor. Ambrose buttoned up his white shirt, tied and adjusted his red bowtie, and pulled on his grey waistcoat and jacket.

  It was time for breakfast.

  Ambrose opened the heavy hardwood door that led out to the second floor hallway. Like so many parts of the Empire, Mansfield Manor was built to reflect status. The basement housed the servants and Mechs’ quarters, alongside the kitchen, laundry, and service areas. On the first floor were the living and entertaining areas, including the Great Ballroom, which was the pride of the Manor. Each wing of the second floor had ten large bedrooms, including the nursery, whilst the third floor was reserved for the Mansfield family, or at least it had been.

  Over the years, the Mansfield family had moved away or passed on, until only Mrs Macy Mansfield remained. Ambrose had not seen her in a long time, and wondered how the years might have taken their toll on her. He would always remember her as the towering matriarch of the powerful family, fiery and single-minded, with a stare that could freeze you in your steps.

  As Ambrose strode down the hallway, he heard creaking floorboards and the sound of water splashing. The other guests were stirring, preparing for the day to come. Not everyone was acting normally however, and a strange humming sound could be heard coming from the first doorway on the left. Ambrose slowed his pace and listened as the drone rose and fell in uneven spaces, sounding like a herd of angry wasps had mated with a choir of tree frogs. Never in any of his visits to the Manor had Ambrose heard such a racket. He straightened his jacket and continued towards the main staircase. He hoped whoever was making the noise was keeping an eye on the time; any guest who had visited Mansfield Manor before was aware that breakfast was served at half past seven sharp on Mrs Mansfield’s orders, and it was a treasonous offence to be late.

  Trotting down the stairs and past the artworks that lined the entrance hall, Ambrose was greeted by Clank, who was on door duty again. He looked his usual unimpressed self, and greeted Ambrose with a solemn vow.

  “Good morning Master Ambrose. I trust you slept well last night?” he enquired.

  “Very well, thank you Clank,” Ambrose said, with a wave of his hand. “Anything to report?”

  The Mech nodded solemnly. “Indeed there is. A Messenger Mech arrived for you just a moment ago. It is awaiting your presence outside the main entrance.” He swept his hand towards the towering doors for emphasis.

  “Oh,” said Ambrose. “Is there any reason why it didn’t come inside?”

  Clink shrugged. “It said that he was given strict instructions to deliver its message to you in private, and asked for a place that no one else was likely to go near. I told it that only a fool would be outdoors in this weather, and so it now waits outside.”

  Well, he’s nothing if not logical, Ambrose thought as he opened the front door and stepped out onto the entrance steps. The chill wind coming in off the Great Front Lawn was incredible, and he pulled his jacket tight around his body, doing his best to ignore the threat of the approaching storm clouds. Standing just a few metres away was a different Messenger Mech from the one that had been waiting at the station yesterday. It was tall and silver, with the numbers 545 written cursively across its chest. It bowed low to the steps as Ambrose approached.

  “Hello, I believe you have a message for me?” said Ambrose, between chattering teeth.

  The Mech stared at Ambrose for a second, then delivered its message: “Guest list for auction suspicious. Be vigilant of strangers. Still sick but investigating, Percy.” The Mech finished the message and stared at Ambrose with its black eyes. “Would you care to Respond. Message return is free. Delivery timeframe is hours.

  Ambrose was frustrated. This message revealed hardly any new information, except that there might be a chance that someone was trying to infiltrate the house. He considered the things he had witnessed so far, and decided he would try and sit next to the man he had seen running across the lawn a little while earlier – that was certainly an unusual scene. Ambrose looked at the 545 model Mech – where was Percy finding these old Messenger Mechs anyway? Their limited messa
ge length was extremely inconvenient. He sighed loudly. “Yes, yes. Respond as follows: “About to meet guests shortly. Will follow your Advice. Some strange activity noted, Ambrose.”

  The Mech whirled and clicked, said a curt, “Good day, sir,” and ran off down the steps of Mansfield Manor towards the gate. The paths had not yet been cleared, and the Mech made deep impressions in the powder as it ran; there were no other footprints in the snow.

  Clank was right, Ambrose thought as he quickly made for the door. Only a fool would be out in this cold weather.

  As he closed the door and moved through the entrance hall, Ambrose quickly checked the clock. It was almost time for breakfast, and he daren’t be late. To rouse the ire of Mrs Mansfield would be an extremely poor move. He also would hate to make a bad impression in front of a beautiful young lady like Molly.

  Good heavens! Where did that thought come from?

  Ambrose shook the thought off as he walked down the corridor to the dining room. Now was no time for emotions; he had to remain alert. Unless Percy was just paranoid from the fever he was running. Yes, maybe it was all in his mind. What would the Assassins Guild want in sleepy little Mansfield anyway?

  Ambrose could hear the hum of voices as he arrived at the double doors to the dining room, which stood open to his right. He adjusted his bowtie, smoothed down his shirt and stepped inside to meet the other guests.

  “Shorty!”

  Felicity made sure that Ambrose couldn’t make a quiet entrance. She was sitting at the long table, which was positioned in the middle of the opulently furnished room, along with the other guests. A few people stopped their conversations to regard the newcomer, but most continued chatting amongst themselves. Ambrose smiled weakly at his sister, acknowledged the nickname he hated so much, and proceeded to the end of the table.

  Sitting in her usual place, looking refined in her emerald green dress with elbow-length sleeves and white lace trim, was Mrs Mansfield herself. She had aged very little, Ambrose noted, since the last time he had seen her. But even back then, when Ambrose had been a boy, Mrs Mansfield had seemed more ancient than the seas themselves. Her grey hair was tied up neatly behind her head in a tight bun, and her face was as shrivelled as an old prune. Very rarely did a grin pass her withered lips, and her deep blue eyes had very few smile lines to show for her many years of living.

  Ambrose walked up to Mrs Mansfield, and took her gloved hand to give it a gentle peck, as he had done since he was a boy. She regarded him with a cool gaze.

  “Are you in the habit of cutting your timing so fine these days, Ambrose?” she asked.

  With that question, Ambrose found himself transported. It was as if time had melted away and he was once again a young boy, standing with Felicity in front of Mrs Mansfield as his father introduced them and thanked her for hosting the family. Memories rushed into Ambrose’s mind; the hours playing games in the Manor’s halls, keeping up with his studies in the library, and playing near the abandoned well. And of course, the terror of turning up late for a meal and receiving a lecture on punctuality from Mrs Mansfield.

  Ambrose returned to the present day and stole a glance at the clock before apologising profusely to the lady of the house. He took a seat by his sister, giving a nervous nod and smile to Molly, who was sitting to Felicity’s left by Mrs Mansfield.

  “Amby, I simply must introduce you to our guests for the auction,” said Felicity, with a huge grin. As always, her carefree demeanour oozed charm and calm.

  Felicity introduced Ambrose to those sitting around the table, clockwise from Mrs Mansfield. Mr and Mrs Durant were old friends of the Mansfields, visiting from out of town. To their right sat Lucas Lamarre and Sam Silcox, young business partners from Traville. They were attempting to hold a conversation with the blustering Colonel Chambers, who was dressed in the formal regalia of The Order, and was lecturing them on government rank and process. At the end of the table sat Mr Bijonne, a portly man with little hair and a grey moustache, who was occasionally attempting to interject.

  One seat separated Ambrose from the final guest, who he recognised immediately – the man’s wild orange hair flew out from his face in every direction, as did his stringy beard and long moustache. Felicity introduced him as Michael Morant, at which point he held up a hand in protest.

  “My dear lady, I must insist that you address me by my stage name. Inspector, I am The Great Mystico,” he said, before he whirled his head in a circle and leaned across the empty chair, whispering, “And I am the greatest thief in the world.” Mystico’s wild eyes seemed to be trying to pop out of his head as he waited for Ambrose to respond.

  Ambrose was about to comment on the ridiculous nature of the claim, but remembered Percy’s warning – this could be someone to watch. “Was it you that I saw jumping out of the snow this morning and dashing towards the Manor?” he enquired.

  Mystico nodded slowly. “Yes, yes! I spent the night sheltering in a snow cave. I’ve learned to build my endurance over the years, in order to pull off feats that are out of the reach of ordinary men.”

  Ambrose turned to Felicity, who was quietly giggling to herself. “Am I to assume you’ve invited a magician as entertainment this weekend?” he asked, seeing through the strange man’s claims.

  Felicity broke out in a raucous laugh. “Yes! Isn’t he the greatest? Mystico, you simply must tell Amby about how you made the House of Lyonne disappear during The Freeze last year.”

  “All in good time, my dear.” Mystico dismissed Felicity with a wave of his hand and returned his attention to Mr Bijonne.

  Ambrose pushed away his irritation with both his sister and Mystico, and looked at the empty chair beside him. Whoever this final guest was, they were late. “Will there be a chance to introduce me to our missing guest at some stage as well?” he asked his sister.

  “Ali-Zhan Hazi needs no introduction!” thundered a voice from the doorway. All eyes darted to the entrance to see a man with a huge beard dressed in the simple clothing of the Eastern people standing there. He wore a long, undyed tunic that hung from his shoulders and nearly touched his ankles, and his only other clothing was a black cap that rose like a wave to form a peak above his forehead. The man stood almost as tall as the doors, and was so broad across the shoulders that Ambrose believed he was the most muscular person he had ever seen. The man laughed heartily, his white teeth contrasted against the black of his beard.

  “You may need no introduction, young man,” the cold voice of Mrs Mansfield cut across his laughter, “But if you ever dare to show up late to a meal in my house again, you’ll be finding yourself another place to sleep in the snow.” She stared the man down as he excused himself and took his place beside Ambrose at the table, offering a hand to the stunned detective as he sat down.

  Ambrose shook the outstretched hand. “A pleasure to meet you,” he intoned, still in awe at the size of the big man. “Since you are from the Eastern Lands, may I assume you wish you be addressed as Zhan?”

  Zhan smiled broadly and slapped Ambrose on the back. “Yes! Ah, the great Inspector Ambrose. Meeting you is fortuitous indeed. The Powers smile on us this day.”

  Ambrose smiled weakly, recovering his breath from the slap he had just received. Breakfast was now served, with Clink, Clank, and Clunk assisting with the service. Conversation soon turned to The Freeze and its effect on local commerce. Sam and Lucas had been planning to earn more before The Freeze set in, and spent quite some time describing how poor it would be for their business dealings if the snow lay on the land for very long.

  “And what is your particular line of business?” enquired Molly, who had been silently studying the table. Ambrose realised this was the first he heard her speak since he arrived at breakfast. Her voice was honey smooth, breaking his train of thought.

  Sam looked at his partner. “Our business,” he said, pausing “…is business. We’re not at liberty to disclose much of what we do I’m afraid, but it involves trades and exchanges between mutually acceptabl
e parties.”

  “I see. What a shame we can’t learn more,” said Molly, returning to her breakfast.

  Sam, perhaps seeing an opportunity, offered to discuss it further with Molly during a walk in the gardens. She politely refused. Ambrose felt relief passing through his mind, but pushed it aside.

  Conversation around the table then fractured, and Ambrose found himself speaking with Zhan, Mystico and Mr Bijonne about the upcoming auction. A series of treasures were to be displayed before the auction, with the main attraction being one of the famous Mansfield gems – the Eye of Gothmore. Mystico was particularly interested in this item, as he had been bought in to make it disappear as part of the night’s entertainment.

  “No locks, nor any other mechanism shall stop me from stealing the gem this weekend,” he declared, waggling a bony finger in the air.

  Mr Bijonne clearly had little time for the theatrics, and began expounding on the gem’s history. He was a jeweller with an incredible knowledge of metals, gems and precious stones. His round spectacles waggled atop his nose as he spoke, mimicking the movement of his neatly cropped moustache. “The Eye of Gothmore has been in the Mansfield family for generations,” he said. “Legend says that the gem was the eye of the feared Gothmore the Destroyer.”

  Ambrose chuckled quietly to himself. He had never had much time for legends like the Tale of Gothmore, who it was claimed had wreaked havoc across the land before disappearing into the sea one day, leaving the Empire behind. Unfortunately for Ambrose, his mirth did not go unnoticed by Zhan, whose normal joviality faded.

  “You do not believe in Gothmore, Inspector?” he quizzed.

  “Well, it’s more that I believe in logic and reason,” said Ambrose. “Any tale of a giant Mech wandering the land with evil intent is fine for children, but where is the proof of his existence? No one has ever found a trace of Gothmore. Show me evidence, and you’ll find me a willing believer.”

  Zhan stroked his beard. “Then what do you make of the stone, Inspector? You question its origin?”