The Purloined Papers (3 page)

India was also hot – far worse than Spain. And it harbored bad air, causing fatal fevers in many visitors. Strife was common, and he wasn’t sure he could stomach another war, especially under a brainless general instead of Wellington. Returning could lead to a court-martial for insubordination.

Which was why he couldn’t sleep. Desire was gaining ground on duty. The cynicism that had lurked since the Buenos Aires campaign had burst into bloom in North America. Now it rose up to proclaim loud and clear that he was sick of war, sick of deprivation, horror, pain, and death. He wanted to build, to heal, to live in peace to a ripe old age.

Impossible, of course. Without skills or funds, he was helpless. So duty must carry the day. Maybe Lady Luck would see him through another campaign. But if she was to help him, he needed to set his unproductive maunderings aside and strengthen his leg.

His fingers dug into the muscle, kneading and smoothing to release the tension. It was too late to change course. All he could do was persevere.

“Still up?” asked William, poking his head into the library.

Andrew shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Then come with me. I can use your sharp eyes. You see details I don’t even notice.”

“What happened?”  It was nearly three.

“A fatal accident at Fields House. Or so their groom claims. His tale sounds odd.”

It was half past three by the time William’s carriage reached the Fields House gates. It felt odd to be back after so many years, mused Andrew. He and William had once run tame here – just as Kevin and Chloe Fields had run tame at Seabrook Manor. The four had been inseparable in childhood.

But those days were long gone. School had caused the first rift, giving the boys a venue for adventure that didn’t include Chloe. She rejoined them during term breaks, but it hadn’t been the same.

He should have accepted the inevitable and left her to prepare for her come-out instead of encouraging her to play hoyden with the boys, he admitted now. Yet she had always been the most adventurous of the group. In his selfish quest to prolong childhood, he’d tried to keep summers the same. But they’d no longer been children, especially that last year.

He cursed as he’d done for eleven years. Chloe had blossomed into womanhood during his last school term. Lust had ripped through him the moment he’d spotted her soft curves. He’d tried to suppress it. God knew he’d tried. But he’d failed, ruining one friendship and damaging another.

Memories slipped out of hiding, bursting with warmth and laughter – and guilt. How could he have been so stupid? 

He’d suppressed his infatuation, knowing it seemed bright and shiny and real only because the army would claim him any day and he was scared out of his wits that he’d fail or turn coward or die.

Then he’d spotted her while riding one morning – had looked for her, he admitted later. Why else had he ridden across Fields House land?  She was beautiful, with sunlight glistening on her hair, her gown stretched enticingly across breasts he knew would fit perfectly in his palm. His mouth had dried as every drop of moisture sank to swell his shaft.

They’d talked and laughed, walking through the orchard. Up close, her cheeks glowed like ripe apricots and her eyes gleamed bright as new leaves. Blood pulsed through his veins, driving away coherent thought – and setting aside honor. So he’d touched her and drawn her close, kissing her wildly, deeply. The next thing he knew, he had her bodice open and was suckling those perfect breasts, drawing moans and cries of passion.

He blinked away his lingering shame – and not just because he’d abused a friend. Only three days later he’d joined his regiment. They had always known that he would leave on his sixteenth birthday and might never return. He’d had no business dallying with an innocent, especially one whose birth was every bit as good as his own.

Yet despite friendship, and in the face of honor, he’d nearly taken her in the open, where anyone might have seen.

So they’d parted in anger – which had strained his friendship with Kevin as well.

For months Chloe’s voice had echoed in his mind – swearing her love; naïvely assuming he would wed her; weeping over his callous reminder that he faced a nomadic life in foreign lands, for his regiment served entirely abroad. Her father would never let her marry at the tender age of fifteen. And he would never wed at all. He had no way to support a wife.

He could have revealed those truths less brutally, but he’d been so angry at his own dishonor that he’d lashed out, choosing words he knew would slice deep. That, even more than his advances, had blanketed him in shame. His guilt had grown until hardship and injury had seemed well-deserved punishments for his crimes.

But not the only ones. He’d not seen her since that day, so she remained in memory with tear-streaked face and pain-stricken eyes. And there was no way to forget. Kevin and William mentioned her in every letter. Thus Andrew knew about her failed Season, knew about her quarrels with Sir Nigel, knew she’d never told a soul about his attack. As the years passed and her situation worsened, his guilt grew. He’d ruined her life, for her failure to wed had to be his fault. Somehow he’d marked her, sullying her enough that other men avoided her. Thus he had condemned her to Laura.

He stifled a shudder. Kevin’s death had stripped her of her last champion. His fault. His responsibility. He would take the pain to his grave.

Andrew forced his mind back to business. It was too late to atone for an eleven-year-old insult or a seven-year-old death. All he could do was protect her from new pain. He had successfully avoided her for eleven years and would continue to do so. Seeing him at William’s house party would remind her of his crimes, so he must leave for London on Monday and pray that Major Barnfield would believe him well enough to resume his command. William knew he’d been recalled, so he would accept an early departure. Duty always came first. Only Andrew would know that he was hiding behind duty to avoid Chloe. He couldn’t reopen those old wounds for either of them.

The grounds around Fields House had fared badly since he’d left. Light from the coachman’s lantern glinted from crumbling gateposts and overgrown shrubbery as the carriage bucked along a rutted drive.

The house wasn’t much better. Crumbling mortar and cracks in the hall paneling denoted poor maintenance. The portrait of Kevin’s great-grandfather was gone, as was the gate-leg table that had always stood near the drawing room. It looked as though rumor had not exaggerated Sir Nigel’s financial woes.

Three night candles and the night lamp burned atop a stand near the stairs, their feeble light emphasizing the stygian gloom of the hall. Five servants huddled in a corner as the butler welcomed William.

Gramling seemed ancient, though he couldn’t be much past sixty. Since Andrew’s last visit, his hair had gone completely gray, and grooves now broke his face into a poor-fitting mosaic.

“Thank God you’re here, my lord,” Gramling told William, voice quavering with shock. He had never mastered the impassive demeanor expected of butlers, and tonight he wasn’t even trying. Tremors rattled his hands. “We didn’t know what to do.”

“So you summoned the magistrate. That was exactly right.” 

Andrew glanced at the mortal remains of Sir Nigel Fields. Arms crossed and legs straight, the corpse lay several feet from a dark spot at the foot of the stairs. The sharp scent of blood permeated the air, nearly blocking the odor of death.

“What happened?” asked William.

“We don’t rightly know,” admitted Gramling. “A shout awakened me in time to hear a bumping sound. When I reached the hallway, Sir Nigel was crumpled at the foot of the stairs. But I’ve no idea why. He retired at ten, as usual. I’ve never known him to leave his room at night. Nor has he ever dressed himself – not even the night the stable caught fire. He always rings for Simms.”  He nodded toward the valet, who stood beside the housekeeper, cook, and two maids. They apparently comprised the entire indoor staff – which explained the derelict appearance of the house.

“You heard nothing?”  William addressed Simms.

Andrew ignored the ensuing discussion of Sir Nigel’s habits. The man had always been as fussy as an old maid, passing his days in a series of petty rituals. He’d believed that an ordered mind guaranteed success. Failure had made him even more fastidious.

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?”