A Second Chance for Murder (10 page)

Garren could not fathom how Floris, who looked particularly radiant this evening, could become so quickly absorbed and attentive to Leedworthy’s yawn-inspiring prattle. They were still chatting when an ear-deafening gong sounded.

Nyle, after seeing Garren place his palm against his ringing ear, waited until his friend lowered his hand to tell him it was the duke’s way of letting his guests know the concert was about to start. Scowling, Garren quipped that he hoped he’d still be able to hear it.

As everyone moved from the side terrace, Garren’s height did not help him find Thora. Surrounded by so many guests, she seemed to have been swallowed up by the throng as they were herded to rows of chairs out on the lawn. A woman’s rose-colored sleeve suddenly brushed his arm. Flashing a warm, welcoming smile, he glanced down, but instead of Thora, it was Cecilia Boothwell dressed, he realized, in a similar shade of rose. Lady Cecilia was not his choice of companion to listen to music, but the woman attached herself to him like a third limb and politeness forced him to ask her to join him. Once seated, he scanned the rows of chairs until he finally found Thora settled into a seat a few rows back. She was sitting alongside Lord Avery Flemington and they seemed to be having a serious conversation.

Garren’s heart sank seeing Thora, for a second time, wearing a warm expression for the man. What was going on between those two?

Earlier when Thora had made her hasty exit from her friends and approached Lord Huntscliff, she engaged in a conversation with Viscount Simon-North and then Marquis Calder Brightington, hoping they might shed some light on who Ivey had gone outside to meet. Disappointingly, she had learned nothing other than that they had danced with Ivey and thought her delightful and charming. Unfortunately, she didn’t have a chance to speak to Sandler Leedworthy, as he had joined Floris and remained a fixture at her side, and she wasn’t going to return to the group with Huntscliff there. She felt she wasn’t advancing in her investigation and was beginning to feel baffled. Looking much like she felt, Lord Flemington approached her just as that awful gong sounded. His lips moved, but Thora couldn’t understand what he was saying and gave him a look of bewilderment. When the noise of the gong ebbed, he tried again.

“Lady Thora,” he said with an undertone of melancholy, “would you give me the honor of letting me escort you to your seat?”

Before answering, Thora glanced over at Lauryn and found that the petite blonde had readily accepted Marquis Brightington’s arm.
So that’s the reason for Lord Flemington’s forlorn face
. Hoping to cheer him, she gaily replied, “Nothing would please me more, my lord.”

When they were seated, Flemington confessed that his shyness had prevented him from asking Lauryn to sit with him. “I just seem to turn to jelly whenever she’s near,” he told Thora, who gave him an understanding nod.

She was beginning to know the feeling all too well herself.

“You didn’t have any trouble asking me to join you,” Thora said.

Lord Flemington’s face turned crimson. “I mean no disrespect, Lady Thora, but with Lady Lauryn, I . . . Well, I just feel different.” He gave a sigh, adding, “I’ve always favored fair-haired ladies.”

An alarm almost as loud as Lord Langless’s gong went off inside Thora as she thought,
Ivey was fair
. Was Lord Flemington’s yearning for Lauryn just the clever pretense of a very devious killer?

When all the guests were seated, the concert began by playing a selection from Mozart. They played beautifully. Garren loved music and had expected an enjoyable evening, but, as it turned out, sitting next to Cecilia Boothwell was becoming excruciatingly irritating. With him, she was even bolder than she had been with Leedworthy in the boathouse. Shamelessly, she pressed her body close to his to giggle some silly drivel in his ear or clasp his arm in false enthusiasm when the musicians hit a crescendo. She was making it known that she was willing to be much more than a concert companion. With cold indifference, he endured her brazen behavior. Raising his face to the heavens, he silently prayed that the audience wouldn’t insist on an encore.

As the music spread its sweet chords over the country landscape, the sun took its departure and the skies darkened. With the onset of evening, several Langless servants began to light torches that were mounted on poles, bathing guests in their flickering light, and casting, in Garren’s view, ominous shadows.

When the concert ended and applauding guests stood to show their appreciation, Lord Langless made his way up the steps of the gazebo. In his booming voice, he thanked everyone for coming and announced that refreshments would be served in the dining room. Garren glanced over to where Thora and Lord Flemington had been sitting. Their chairs were empty. A feeling of dread gripped him. Quickly he searched among the guests until they rested on the Lady Boothwell. Turning to Cecilia, he thanked her for the pleasure of her company—a lie—then swiftly escorted her to her seemingly pleased mother.

Before either of the two women could trap him into conversation, he excused himself and slipped away into the slow-moving procession of guests making their way to the front doors of the manor. Stretching his body to its limit, his eyes scanned the sea of guests, but there was no sign of Thora. Garren picked up his pace, weaving his way through the crowd until he glimpsed a dark-haired woman nearing the front of the house in a rose gown. He gave a sigh of relief. It had to be Thora, for he had left the man hungry Cecilia Boothwell far behind him. Knowing that Thora was inside and safe, he slowed his steps and stopped to chat with a few guests while keeping a sharp lookout for his suspects, which he was finding difficult to do with the multitude that had been invited.

When he finally entered the dining room, Thora wasn’t there. The sickening feeling returned. Adding to his concern was the fact that he didn’t see any of the suspects save Sandler Leedworthy, who also seemed to be looking for someone. When he had circled the room without seeing Thora, he thought perhaps she had slipped back outside. He was making his way to the center hall when he overheard two of the Langless servants talking.

“I lit those torches myself,” one said, scratching his head. “There’s no wind tonight. How did they go out?”

The other man gave him a shrug, saying, “Well, go back out and light them again. It’s dark out there, and it will be your neck if Lord Langless notices.”

A sixth sense told Garren something was wrong, terribly wrong. Those torches had help going out. Spying Nyle outside, he took his friend aside and quickly told him about the torches and of his concern for Thora, who was still nowhere in sight. Nyle’s face turned white.

With alarm in his voice, Nyle said, “I’ll go back inside and give the dining room another go round while you check outside.” He ran into the house.

Garren scoured the area where the concert was held. The only people there were the musicians who were packing up their instruments and a few stragglers leisurely strolling toward the manor’s open front doors. Thora was not among them. A few moments later, Nyle joined him with unsettling news.

“She’s not inside.”

“Let’s not consider the worse,” Garren said, trying to ease his friend’s anxiety, though his own was rising. He feared for Thora. Had she impulsively gone off to do some detecting with the murderer? Struggling to remain calm, he took command. “Let’s go back inside and discreetly ask Lord Langless to gather some of the servants to look for her.”

After a quick word with Lord Langless and while guests enjoyed their refreshments, Nyle and Garren returned outside. Lord Langless met them a few minutes later with eight of his male servants. Nyle quickly gave the servants a physical description of his sister and the color of the gown she was wearing. One of the servants distributed torches to each man. Once they were lit, they set off in pairs to scour the grounds.

A frightful feeling of déjà vu engulfed Nyle, remembering the last time he had searched for a missing girl, and his heart began to pound frantically.

It was decided that each small search party should take a different direction. Garren and Nyle took the most likely path, the one where the torches had been doused earlier. Following the path, they discovered it took them away from the front entrance. Using their torches, they found a grassy footpath that gently sloped and led them to a small pond formed by circled stones. Playfully, springing out of the center of the pond and surrounded by floating lily pads was a group of sculptured stone dolphins. As Nyle and Garren drew near, their torches lit the still water and they stopped. Thora lay face down in the shallow pond, her dark tresses splayed across the surface of the water with the skirts of her rose-colored gown wet and clinging to her lower half.

An indecipherable cry, almost like that of a wounded animal, left Nyle’s lips and he dropped to his knees, his torch falling from his hand. He buried his face in his hands and with his shoulders quaking, he repeatedly sobbed Thora’s name and openly wept. Garren shared his friend’s anguish. He swallowed hard, trying to hold back his own pain. Nyle’s cry alerted the others and Lord Langless and his servants came running. Though he was puffing heavily, Lord Langless gasped at the sight of the body in the water and had to take several reviving gulps of air before he could speak. “Good God, Nyle. I’m so sorry!” He gave Garren a helpless look. “How could this have happened?”

For a moment Garren had trouble speaking. Pulling on every ounce of reserve he could muster, he managed to say, “Help me get her out of the water.” At his direction, two of the servants stepped into the pond, taking the upper half of the body while Garren squatted at the edge and grasped her legs. Gently, they lifted the lifeless body out of the water and set it down on the grass.

Garren turned the body over slowly and his jaw dropped. “It’s not Thora!” he shouted over his shoulder to his distraught friend. Still shaken, Nyle struggled to rise to his feet. Picking up his torch, he stumbled over to look at the woman he’d thought to be his sister. “It’s Lady Cecilia Boothwell.

Thora and Cecilia wore similar gowns.” He wiped his eyes, took a deep breath of relief, and stared at the lifeless form of Cecilia Boothwell. “No matter what a pest I considered her to be, Cecilia didn’t deserve this. Her head looks like she was struck with a rock.”

Sitting on his haunches, Garren brushed back some of Cecilia’s wet hair, hanging from her head like tangled seaweed, clearing the area around her neck. He lowered his torch for better light.

“What are you looking for?” Nyle asked.

“Marks. If she were strangled there would be marks on her throat.”

“Can you see any?”

“No,” Garren replied, rising to his feet. Turning to Lord Langless, he asked if the village doctor was among the guests and if so to bring him.

Lord Langless stared blankly at him for a moment and then asked, “What . . . what do I tell him?”

“Tell him that there’s been an accident,” Garren answered, then watched as the older man made his way back to the house. He turned to Nyle. “I might have been the last person to see Lady Cecilia alive. I was sitting with her up until the end of the concert when I left her to join the others in the dining room. I searched for our suspects, but the only one I happened to see was Leedworthy. He was in the dining room, but I don’t know if he got there before or after I did. Whoever killed Cecilia Boothwell worked fast.” Worry lines creased his brow. Thora was still missing. With a tone of desperation, he said, “I’ll stay here and wait for the doctor, but I think you should find your sister.”

Nyle didn’t waste a minute. He hurried back to the house as fast as his well-muscled legs could carry him. As Nyle’s form faded into the darkness until only the light from his torch moved in the distance like a ghostly specter, Garren inwardly wailed,
Thora, where are you?

As he neared the front doors of the manor, Nyle saw Lord Langless and Parry Halford, the village doctor, rushing out and heading toward him. Two servants were with them, carrying torches to light their way. Seeing Nyle, Lord Langless stopped but told one of the servants to take Dr. Halford to the pond and ordered the other to stay with him. “Nyle, when I was leaving with the doctor, I overheard the Lady Boothwell asking if anyone had seen her daughter.”

Nyle grimaced, thinking how painful the news of her daughter’s death would be for Lady Boothwell. “Did you say anything to her?”

“No,” Lord Langless replied, somewhat shame-faced.

Someone had to tell the poor woman, Nyle thought. It wouldn’t soften the blow if Lord Langless broke it to her with his thundering vocals. “I’ll handle it,” Nyle found himself saying.

Lord Langless expelled a long, grateful sigh. “Thank you, my boy. Thank you.” Before parting, the older man gripped Nyle’s arm. “I sent one of the servants to the village for the constable.”

“Good thinking,” Nyle said, then continued toward the front doors. No sooner had he entered the manor house than Lady Boothwell ran up to him, her voice shaky.

“Lord Somerville, have you seen my Cecilia? I can’t seem to find her.”

“Lady Boothwell, please come with me. There’s something I must tell you.”

Lady Boothwell gave him a fearful stare then, with mute obedience, she let him lead her to an unoccupied room.

From his previous visits to the Langless estate, Nyle was familiar with the home and ushered the woman into the one of the private parlors and closed the door. He asked her to please have a seat and then he brought a chair alongside her. “I’m afraid there’s been an accident.”

Lady Boothwell’s eyes widened. Her lips moved, but it was a few minutes before she could form her words. They came out soft and slow at first and then loudly gushed out, demanding, “Is . . . is it Cecilia? Is she hurt? Where is Cecilia? Lord Somerville, where is Cecilia? Where is my daughter?” Gazing into his eyes, she spotted the truth, and then she started to scream.

The sound of the woman’s screams echoed throughout the huge house, alarming the guests. As hostess, Lady Langless was the first to enter the parlor. Seeing her, Nyle rose, went to her, and in a low voice said, “Please take Lady Boothwell upstairs and have someone stay with her. There’s been an accident. It’s Cecilia. She . . . well, I’m afraid she’s dead.”

Lady Langless gasped and hurried over to the grieving woman. Nyle looked on as Lady Langless ably took charge of the situation. While uttering sympathetic words, Lady Langless helped Lady Boothwell to her feet and guided the sobbing woman out of the study.