Chapter 2
Two
Fletch
Fletch did his best not to acknowledge the glorious examples of female pulchritude wafting up the stairs like a summer breeze.
They even smelled of summer. The young blond almost resembled a flower in all the lace and finery, but it was the sturdy, fire-haired widow who always caught his attention.
Intuition said that plain, prim exterior hid a dormant volcano in danger of erupting at any moment.
He had the reprehensible urge to be there when it happened.
But then, everyone knew he wasn’t right in the head. At war’s end, he’d arrived in Gravesyde at his lieutenant’s request and stayed as his sergeant’s partner in his inn, but he didn’t socialize.
The enormous floor clock he’d pulled out at an angle on the landing half hid him. The young aristocrat sailed by as if Fletch were part of the mahogany case. The other lady knew him better. She kicked his worn boot where it protruded onto the stair.
“Good morning, Major. You will let us know if the earl hid his jewels in there?”
“I’m sure diamonds and rubies make it tick, Mrs. Morgan.” They’d called each other less proper names when arguing over. . . just about everything. He hated small talk but apparently he had a penchant for irritating women.
“I am looking forward to it.” She sailed up the stairs after the royal blond.
On the whole, Fletch liked women. He just didn’t like what they represented—family and responsibility.
And the Widow Morgan had piles of both. He missed his late mistress.
She’d never expected anything of him but his coin.
He offered up a moment of silence in Willa’s memory.
There’d been a long drought since her untimely demise.
Pretty soon, every woman who crossed his path would look good.
Using a rag, he carefully dismantled the enormous pendulums. His father hadn’t been much of a parent but he’d been an excellent clockmaker.
Fletch had literally learned history at his daddy’s knee.
He knew this clock wasn’t medieval, as the family called it.
The first pendulum clocks weren’t even a gleam in Galileo’s eye until after dull Cromwell stuck his spoon in the wall and naughty Charles took the throne.
Long case clocks weren’t built, if he remembered his history, until bloody Queen Mary’s reign.
This particular specimen was far more refined than those early attempts. Completely handmade and carved from the finest mahogany, it had to have cost a few fortunes. But then, the earls of Wycliffe had that and more at one time.
Fletch had taken apart many old clocks. This one wasn’t just refined, but peculiar, like the earl’s entire family. He needed to diagram what he found.
He abandoned the stairs to find paper and pencil.
The American captain, executor for the earl’s trust, had told him to take what he needed from his old study, but Hunt had only one eye and didn’t spend time writing.
Fletch had to venture deeper into the manor’s bowels before he found the captain’s wife in her study.
She offered a selection of paper and writing instruments.
By the time he returned to the stairs, he caught a glimpse of a plain skirt slipping down the side hall to the ballroom.
He must have missed the seamstresses coming down.
A shame. He’d thought of a few sallies about jewels to set off Mrs. Morgan again.
The village didn’t offer a great deal of entertainment, which was fine with him.
He’d seen the Continent, watched the countryside blown up and covered in blood.
He didn’t need excitement. Mild amusement sufficed.
A shattering scream from above abruptly hurled Fletch into his worst nightmares. He froze, prepared to dive for shelter—although stone stairs weren’t the same as a muddy trench.
Fighting paralysis, he concentrated on the scream. Mrs. Morgan! Wasn’t that her who had just gone around the corner. . . ?
Jarred into action, he dashed up the marble stairs to the family’s private floor. The old dowagers stuck their heads from their suite and ducked back in at sight of him. They were probably bolting doors and loading weapons. His disreputable appearance often had that effect.
“Help, someone, anyone! Send for Dr. Walker!”
He’d never heard the sensible lady hysterical.
The huge, old butler lumbered up the stairs after him. Using his officer’s voice, Fletch ordered Quincy to send for the physician, then ran through the upper corridor, following the shouts.
Turning down the front guest hall, he caught a glimpse of dark skirts vanishing into the service stairs.
As far as he was aware, the manor had no visitors this week.
Not so much as a single maid or valet stuck out their head from the row of closed doors.
He wished he’d brought a lamp. The sconces in this narrow, windowless hall were next to useless.
They needed to rip out the wall, let in all that light from the ballroom downstairs.
Of course, that would eliminate the family art gallery on the other side of the wall.
A single sconce illuminated the stairwell. He recognized the fiery hair more than the dark attire all the women wore. She was crouched near. . . more dark skirts, in an unnatural sprawl. Easing down the steps, Fletch noted a second head of fiery hair and swallowed hard.
“What happened?” he whispered. He didn’t know why he was whispering.
“She must have fallen.” Sobs thickened her voice. “She just returned to Gravesyde. This is awful.”
He breathed easier knowing that wasn’t Mrs. Morgan lying lifeless at the bottom—just someone who looked an awful lot like her. “Move back. Let me near. Is she unconscious?”
“She’s not moving. I’m terrified—” She let that thought dangle as she eased up the stairs so he could climb down.
Voices chattered at the top of the stairwell. Someone opened the door at the bottom, letting in more light.
An older woman, with gray threading through the auburn beneath her cap, sprawled headfirst across the bottom treads, her neck bent unnaturally. She wasn’t breathing. Fletch checked for a pulse and couldn’t find a beat.
He shook his head, and Mrs. Morgan began to weep.
Damn, the village didn’t need any more dead bodies.