stairs in the old wing. She’s dead, sir.” Ferguson glanced at the bundle Sean, Mitch, and Fred were balancing across their arms. “And now Joy’s dead, too.” Ferguson looked at Manachan, then lifted his gaze to Thomas’s face. “Whatever’s going on, sir?”
Thomas wished he knew.
Manachan grunted and waved to a chair against the wall. Thomas and Lucilla helped him to it. Once he’d sat, with Thomas on one side and Lucilla on the other, Manachan demanded to be told everything.
With the rest of the staff at their backs, Ferguson and Mrs. Kennedy stood before Manachan and between them related how they’d searched the rambling old house, high and low, and sent Sean and others to the nearby farms. Only after they’d eliminated every other possible place had one of the footmen thought of going into the disused wing.
That particular wing was called that for a reason; Thomas couldn’t recall the last time any of the rooms within it had been opened, much less used.
“Lying there, she was,” Ferguson said. “Sprawled at the bottom of the stairs with her neck broken. Seems she’d been dead from the night we’d last seen her.” Ferguson paused, thinking. “Two nights ago, that would be.”
Mrs. Kennedy, still pale, but with her composure returning, nodded. “Poor Faith. She must have tripped…” Breaking off, Mrs. Kennedy frowned. “We thought it an accident.” Her tone suggested she was no longer so sure.
Manachan shifted, then in a more vigorous tone barked, “Where’s Nigel?”
Ferguson exchanged a glance with Mrs. Kennedy. “The young master’s still in Ayr, sir. He and Mr. Nolan left three mornings ago, and we haven’t seen them since.”
Footsteps from the rear of the hall had everyone glancing that way. Lucilla watched a slight young lady and a tall, gangly young gentleman walk out from under an archway at the rear corner of the hall.
Both halted, clearly surprised to have come upon such a gathering.
Lucilla recognized Niniver Carrick, Manachan’s third child and only daughter; slender, with pale blond hair, she blinked at the assembled company. The dark-haired young man, barely more than a youth, who halted beside Niniver, Lucilla assumed to be Norris, Manachan’s youngest son; the resemblance was faint, but there. Norris and Niniver were dressed in day clothes suitable for a morning about the house.
Niniver recovered first. She focused on her father. “Papa—it’s…good to see you down. We came to ask what was happening about luncheon. The gong hasn’t rung.”
Manachan humphed. He looked at Mrs. Kennedy and Ferguson. “Luncheon has been put back by an hour or so.”
Norris frowned. “Why?” Then his gaze fixed on the wrapped body now resting on the tiles, and his features went blank. “What’s going on?”
“Never mind that.” Manachan waved his hand testily. “What do you know about anyone going into the old wing?”
Norris’s frown didn’t ease. “The disused wing?” When Manachan nodded, Norris replied, “As far as I know, no one’s been in there for years.”
Niniver nodded, then it was her turn to ask, “Why?”
Manachan sighed, and in a few terse words, told them.
Their shocked surprise was transparently genuine; Lucilla doubted the pair knew anything about either death. But what increasingly concerned her was Manachan’s flagging strength; she could hear the effort each breath cost him. He’d called on reserves to go out to the Bradshaws’ and was now fading fast.
She caught Thomas’s eye; she let her gaze flick to Manachan and thought at Thomas—and was relieved when, lips tightening, he nodded.
The instant there was a suitable break in the comments, Thomas said, “Sir—I suggest we leave Ferguson and Mrs. Kennedy to deal with the situation and get luncheon under way. Meanwhile, we should get you upstairs.”
Manachan glanced at Thomas, then softly grunted and tensed to rise. From the way Thomas’s lips thinned, and the faintly pained
Thomas wished he knew.
Manachan grunted and waved to a chair against the wall. Thomas and Lucilla helped him to it. Once he’d sat, with Thomas on one side and Lucilla on the other, Manachan demanded to be told everything.
With the rest of the staff at their backs, Ferguson and Mrs. Kennedy stood before Manachan and between them related how they’d searched the rambling old house, high and low, and sent Sean and others to the nearby farms. Only after they’d eliminated every other possible place had one of the footmen thought of going into the disused wing.
That particular wing was called that for a reason; Thomas couldn’t recall the last time any of the rooms within it had been opened, much less used.
“Lying there, she was,” Ferguson said. “Sprawled at the bottom of the stairs with her neck broken. Seems she’d been dead from the night we’d last seen her.” Ferguson paused, thinking. “Two nights ago, that would be.”
Mrs. Kennedy, still pale, but with her composure returning, nodded. “Poor Faith. She must have tripped…” Breaking off, Mrs. Kennedy frowned. “We thought it an accident.” Her tone suggested she was no longer so sure.
Manachan shifted, then in a more vigorous tone barked, “Where’s Nigel?”
Ferguson exchanged a glance with Mrs. Kennedy. “The young master’s still in Ayr, sir. He and Mr. Nolan left three mornings ago, and we haven’t seen them since.”
Footsteps from the rear of the hall had everyone glancing that way. Lucilla watched a slight young lady and a tall, gangly young gentleman walk out from under an archway at the rear corner of the hall.
Both halted, clearly surprised to have come upon such a gathering.
Lucilla recognized Niniver Carrick, Manachan’s third child and only daughter; slender, with pale blond hair, she blinked at the assembled company. The dark-haired young man, barely more than a youth, who halted beside Niniver, Lucilla assumed to be Norris, Manachan’s youngest son; the resemblance was faint, but there. Norris and Niniver were dressed in day clothes suitable for a morning about the house.
Niniver recovered first. She focused on her father. “Papa—it’s…good to see you down. We came to ask what was happening about luncheon. The gong hasn’t rung.”
Manachan humphed. He looked at Mrs. Kennedy and Ferguson. “Luncheon has been put back by an hour or so.”
Norris frowned. “Why?” Then his gaze fixed on the wrapped body now resting on the tiles, and his features went blank. “What’s going on?”
“Never mind that.” Manachan waved his hand testily. “What do you know about anyone going into the old wing?”
Norris’s frown didn’t ease. “The disused wing?” When Manachan nodded, Norris replied, “As far as I know, no one’s been in there for years.”
Niniver nodded, then it was her turn to ask, “Why?”
Manachan sighed, and in a few terse words, told them.
Their shocked surprise was transparently genuine; Lucilla doubted the pair knew anything about either death. But what increasingly concerned her was Manachan’s flagging strength; she could hear the effort each breath cost him. He’d called on reserves to go out to the Bradshaws’ and was now fading fast.
She caught Thomas’s eye; she let her gaze flick to Manachan and thought at Thomas—and was relieved when, lips tightening, he nodded.
The instant there was a suitable break in the comments, Thomas said, “Sir—I suggest we leave Ferguson and Mrs. Kennedy to deal with the situation and get luncheon under way. Meanwhile, we should get you upstairs.”
Manachan glanced at Thomas, then softly grunted and tensed to rise. From the way Thomas’s lips thinned, and the faintly pained
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