A Second Chance for Murder

Chapter 1

London 1843

“For God’s sake, the poor girl was raped and strangled while a guest in my home! And her killer has yet to be found. How can you sit there and tell me to calm down?” a distraught Lord Nyle Somerville gusted to his longtime friend Garren Huntscliff while he paced restlessly in the study of the man’s London townhouse.

Without answering, Garren unfolded his long body from his chair and rose to his towering six-foot-five height and walked over to the wall bell cord. Tugging the cord, he rang for Jasper, his butler.

As if he had been anticipating his master’s summons, Jasper appeared almost instantly at the door of the study.

Garren moved toward his servant—a balding man of average height with pebble-sized, cloudy grey eyes, dwarfing the man. In his low, deep voice he ordered, “Bring some brandy.”

Turning back to Nyle, he said, “Watching you pace back and forth is not only wearing my carpet thin, but it’s putting a crick in my neck. I asked Jasper to bring in some brandy. I think you could use a glass.”

Nyle stopped abruptly, long enough to give his friend an exasperated glance. He muttered something to the effect that brandy wasn’t all he needed. He continued his pacing and was still pacing when the butler returned. Jasper’s white-gloved hands held a silver tray, which bore a decanter of brandy and two glasses. He set the tray down on a side table and as quietly as he entered, he left the room.

Garren moved over to the table, wrapped his long fingers around the body of the brandy decanter, and poured a generous amount into a finely etched crystal tumbler. He carried the glass to Nyle, handed it to him, and then ushered his friend into a soft leather chair.

Dropping into the chair like a crumbling house of cards, Nyle took the brandy that Garren thrust into his hand, put the glass to his lips, and took a much-needed swallow.

“Now,” Garren said, settling his large frame into a chair opposite his friend. “I’d like you to start from the beginning once more and tell me everything that happened that night.” He leaned back and did what he did best as an investigator—listened.

Nyle took another taste of his brandy and rubbed the back of his neck before speaking. He had just finished telling Garren the whole tragic story and now the man was asking him to repeat it. Perhaps he had shouted more than talked the first time, but this was an upsetting matter and his nerves were getting the better of him. He wasn’t talking about a new horse he’d added to his stables; he was discussing murder. Maybe Garren was accustomed to speaking of such subjects as murder and rape as if they were as mundane as discussing yesterday’s weather but he was not.

Drawing in a deep breath and then letting it out slowly in an effort to steady himself, he began. “We were having a house party that night. A few friends attended, our surrounding neighbors, Lord Langless, his wife and eldest daughter, the Mayfields and Boothwells, the vicar and his wife . . . and Ivey.” Nyle paused to swallow the lump of emotion rising in his throat and took another deep breath.

Garren would have given anything not to see his friend so wounded. He waited patiently as Nyle collected himself.

After a few moments, Nyle started again. “Ivey had been staying with us. She was a frequent visitor at the manor ever since she and Thora met in finishing school. I can barely remember a day when she was not there,” Nyle reflected. “Thora and Ivey were as close as twins. They always had their heads together chatting and giggling, devising some silly plan to persuade me to take them to London for a shopping trip or the theater. She was such a fixture at the manor that I started to think of her as another sister.”

Nyle paused once more, staring into the glass of brandy that he rolled between the palms of his hands. This was the difficult part, the part where he had to relive that awful night. Steeling his emotions he went on. “The day of the party, Thora came down with an awful cold and had to stay abed. She said she would rather die than have someone see her puffy eyes or her nose that was as red and watery as an overripe tomato. Ivey offered to sit with her that evening, but Thora wouldn’t hear of it. The evening was going along well, or so I thought, when someone mentioned that Ivey was missing.”

Nyle’s words suddenly stilled. After setting his brandy on a side table next to his chair, he placed two fingers against each of his temples and began to draw unseen circles against the tightened muscles.

“Take your time, Nyle,” Garren said, his dark brown eyes troubled at the sight of his friend so overwrought. This wasn’t like the Nyle Mannington he knew. They had attended Eton together, he the son of the Earl of Huntscliff, and Nyle, the young Marquis of Mannington and son and heir of the Earl of Somerville. With his broad back and muscular arms, Nyle had looked more like a strapping farmhand than the son of an aristocrat. In those early days, there was a contagious eagerness about Nyle, a young man ready to tackle whatever adversity came his way. Although tonight, sitting slumped in his chair, with worry lines creasing his brow and his face drawn, Nyle appeared spent, defeated. This whole tragic affair was taking a physical toll on him.

“I first thought,” Nyle continued, “that Ivey had gone upstairs to see Thora. But when I went to my sister’s room and peeked in, I found Thora asleep. I became worried and immediately returned downstairs to organize a search. We searched the house first, then all the men present at the party, including the servants, began combing the grounds. It didn’t take long. Mercer, my valet, found her.” The vision of the lifeless body of Ivey Sharling had Nyle hanging his head and staring at his boots, attempting to hide the moisture building in his eyes.

Pretending not to notice, Garren let Nyle regain control before asking, “Do you think this Mercer may have . . .?”

Nyle’s head snapped up. “Mercer? Good God, no. He’s four and seventy years and has trouble removing my coat off the closet hook, let alone attacking a healthy young female!”

“And that’s when you sent for the local authorities?”

“Yes,” Nyle confirmed. “Two constables arrived first. Then an Inspector Graham came out to the manor and questioned all the guests, verifying their whereabouts at the time Ivey went missing. That’s when Thora came downstairs.” The memory of that moment dimmed his pale blue eyes. “Telling Thora about Ivey was the second hardest thing I ever had to do in my life.”

As a longtime friend, Garren was fully aware of what had been the first. He often wondered how Nyle had managed to inform his younger sister, a girl of ten years at the time, that a carriage accident had claimed the lives of their parents. He could only imagine how difficult it must have been. It was one of the reasons he admired Nyle, but his respect for the man sitting across from him had started years ago in their youth when they were both still at school.

He could still recall the day of their meeting. He could hardly forget it. It was the day he’d received his worst trouncing. Unknown to each other, he and Nyle joined a group of boys in a game of Rounders. They had just begun to play when some upper-class lads, looking to play a game of their own, ordered the younger boys to stop playing and leave the field. Intimidated by the bigger boys, their teammates quickly complied and began picking up their bats. Scooping up the ball, he and Nyle stood shoulder-to-shoulder unwilling to give up the ground for the newcomers.

The tallest of the group and presumably their leader moved forward so that his face came within inches of Garren’s, who, though years his junior, was nearly equal in height. Jabbing his finger into the younger boy’s chest, he stridently commanded, “I said, ‘Leave!’”

Undaunted, Garren stared back at the older boy and returned a defiant, “No!”

For an instant the older boy stared as if assessing him, then he turned and nodded to his pals. What followed was a fury of fists, kicks, and punches with the outnumbered younger boys mainly on the receiving end, though both he and Nyle did manage to land a few good blows. Bloodied and bruised, they were tossed off the field where a few of their classmates, having stayed and witnessed their trashing, helped them to their rooms.

Later that night, in Nyle’s room, the boys took stock of their swollen features. Garren agreed that of the two of them, his blackened eye had more swelling bu
t insisted that his comrade-in-arms had the fatter lip.

“We did give them a hell of a fight,” Nyle boasted.

Grinning, Garren nodded, and though they would not realize it that instant, a bond had formed. As their friendship grew over the following years, each came to the same conviction; each discovered they had found a steadfast friend, one who could be counted on in times of trouble no matter what the odds.

Nyle exhaled heavily, bringing Garren back to the present. “Ivey’s death was tragic and saddened everyone at the manor, but it was Thora who took Ivey’s loss the hardest. For weeks following the funeral, she refused to leave her bed or venture from her room. She barely ate. When I tried to talk to her to comfort her, it only served to bring on a bout of uncontrollable sobbing. I have never seen someone shed so many tears.”

Nyle rose up from his chair and walked to the window, glancing but not seeing the passersby on the busy London street. He turned around and faced Garren. “I was at my wits end,” Nyle said, throwing his hands up in a gesture of helplessness. “What is a brother to do? This wasn’t a skinned knee that I could bandage or a broken doll that I could easily mend. She was deeply despaired. How was I expected to mend the loss of a dear friend?” Nyle slowly moved to the fireplace. As the weather was warm, there were no logs burning in the hearth. He stood looking as though he wished there were.

Rubbing his face tiredly, Nyle went on. “I finally asked the vicar to speak to her. After a number of lengthy talks, Thora started to come round. One morning she joined me at breakfast, the next day at dinner. Eventually, her appetite improved and soon we were taking meals together. By the following month she accepted an invitation for tea at the Boothwells. For the most part, she is healing, but I know she still bears the pain of Ivey’s loss. Hoping a change of scenery may help, I suggested she accompany me here to London. She’s staying with the Mayfields. Their daughter, Lauryn, is a friend and I promised to take her shopping. Last evening, I took her to the theater, which she seemed to enjoy.”

With all the monumental responsibilities Nyle had to weather, raising a younger sister must have been the most challenging, Garren thought with a pang of guilt. He should have been a better friend to Nyle. He should have gone out to Mannington Manor, Nyle’s ancestral home, to visit more often instead of sending the occasional invitation to Nyle, asking him to join him in London after he had finished a difficult case for a few days of hell-raising. He’d been selfish, too involved in his own work, his own career. “I pray she has mended from this awful tragedy,” he said with heartfelt sincerity.

“I wish I could say yes,” Nyle answered, returning to his seat, “but now she blames herself. She’s convinced that if she had she been there, if her vanity hadn’t kept her upstairs in her room that night, Ivey would never have left the ballroom. The chief magistrate has ruled that, without any evidence to the contrary, the murder most likely was committed by a vagrant or some wandering gypsy, a ruling Thora finds unacceptable. So now she’s taken it upon herself to find her friend’s killer.”

Nyle’s last words had Garren bolt upright in his chair. “And how does she intend to find this killer?”

Nyle raked his fingers roughly though the thick waves of his brown hair. “I don’t know! That’s what frightens me. Lord knows what trouble she’ll get herself into. Thora’s always been impulsive. She’s already gone down to the magistrate’s office informing him of his incompetence. She demanded he reopen the case and, when he refused, saying he had nothing to more to go on, she stormed out of his office saying he couldn’t find his own nose without looking in a mirror.”

Nyle reached over to the side table, picked up his brandy, and took a swig. “Then today at breakfast she casually informs me that she invited the same group of guests back to Mannington Manor for a fortnight, so, in her words, she could discreetly interrogate them. My first thought was to cancel the invitations, but I fear if I do she might take more drastic measures. Garren, I can’t have a houseful of guests, run the estate, and keep her in eyesight every minute.”

Nyle drained the last of his brandy and set his glass down. “I need your help, Garren. Thora is convinced that Ivey went into the garden to meet someone. One of the guests. If the killer is, as Thora suspects, a guest, then not only my sister but every young woman at the manor is at risk.”

Garren leaned back, pressing his wide shoulders deep into the cushion at the back of his chair and stared at his friend. If it had been anyone but Nyle who had come to his home asking him to investigate a murder, he would have taken the man by his collar and the seat of his trousers and tossed him into the street. His days working with the Royal Guardians, an elite group of investigators, were behind him. Damn, his last case had nearly cost him his life!

Unconsciously, his hand moved to his shoulder. Through the layer of his fine linen shirt he felt the raised, lumpy scar where a bullet had been removed. Had the woman who’d shot him taken better aim, he wouldn’t be sitting here listening to Nyle. But it wasn’t getting shot that’d caused Garren to turn from the profession he had chosen. He had been shot before and stabbed and had his face kissed by many a fist during his investigating days, but his decision to give it up came when he suddenly realized that life was passing him by. The countless family gatherings, the Christmas holidays spent alone or with strangers because he was on a case, the relationships that’d suffered and eventually died due to his long absences. He had traded them all for his work until one day he’d decided enough was enough.

But this was Nyle asking for help. Nyle, who’d been the first to rush to his bedside after learning he’d been shot. Faithful, reliable Nyle. It was so like him to leave the ever-growing responsibilities of the family estate to comfort a friend. It was now his turn to repay that loyalty. Moving forward to rest his muscular forearms on his knees, he nodded at his old school chum and said, “Of course I’ll help! I’d be sorely offended had you not asked.”

As if a heavy weight had been lifted from his shoulders, Nyle’s broad frame straightened. “Come out to the manor house next week. Everyone who was there that night has accepted Thora’s invitation. Since the authorities have deemed the case closed and the work of some drifter, those attending have assumed there is no danger in coming back . . .” He winced as he finished, “. . . to the scene of the crime. No one knows of your former association with the Royal Guardians, not even Thora. You can mix among them. You’re the investigator. See if there’s any merit to what Thora believes and if there is . . .” Nyle’s light blue eyes turned into glacier ice and in a bitterly cold voice, he added, “Help me catch the bastard.”