"And what is the problem now, if I may know?" The chap might be as trustworthy as they come; he also took his time in getting to the point.
"Well, now, I chanced to see one of the sheep nosing about the far side of the seventh hole. Thought to see why. Normally they have nothin' to do with the sand bunkers." The wiry man half-turned to look at Nick, expectant to see his reaction, most likely.
"What did you discover?" Nick asked quietly as they increased their speed. Call it a premonition, he knew he was in for trouble. That it had something to do with his golf links made him even more uneasy.
"A body." With this dramatic statement, Otway clearly expected some manner of amazed reaction.
"Good grief, man. Injured? Should we get help for him? Or ... is he dead?" Nick assumed that whoever it was the sheep discovered, it had to be a man.
"I believe he's dead. No sign of life that I could see. Don't recognize the feller. Maybe you will?"
There was a question in his last remark. Nick wondered who those two arguing men might have been. And who was the mysterious body in the sand bunker? And why in the sand?
It took a little time to reach the spot where the body sprawled, facedown, in the depression of sand. Nick quickly ascertained that the man was indeed dead. No help for him now. "Murdered." Nick rose to his feet after discovering the injury to the head, feeling a little ill at the sight before him. Blood had seeped into the sand, forming a stain of dark claret red.
"Know him?" Otway inquired.
"Face seems faintly familiar, but I couldn't put a name to him." Nick studied the area where they found the man. Other than the head injury there appeared to be no mark on the man. At least, his clothing was not awry, nor was there a sign of a struggle. A single blow to the head had accomplished the deed. It had required a heavy object, and someone who possessed a modicum of strength.
"Milord, isn't this your club?" Otway held up one of Nick's golfing clubs, one with a solid wood head to it.
"Looks as though it might be mine," Nick allowed. He recognized it well, having ordered it while in Scotland. How it got into the hands of a man intent upon committing murder he didn't know. As evidence it was circumstantial. While it might be his own club, there were any number of people who could have taken it when he wasn't around. However, were he a member of a jury, he would think it more than possible that the owner of the club had done the deed.
"Also looks as though that's how this chap be done in," Otway murmured.
"From the impression on his head, I agree. I expect we send for a doctor or an apothecary. I think we need some sort of certificate. Not having been in this situation before, I'm not sure." Nick rose from where he had knelt by the body. "Perhaps the magistrate?"
Hoping to discover the identity of the stranger, Nick searched the dead man's pockets. In one of them he found a slip of paper such as given by a shopkeeper. The name of the shop was Binch's, a haberdasher in Mansfield, a town north of Nottingham.
"Mansfield? What on earth is a person from that part of the country doing here?" he said. "I had better get counsel."
"Well, if you want, I kin ride to Sir William's. If he bain't the one to do the duty, he will know," Otway offered.
"No, I had best go myself. But thank you, just the same. Please find something with which to cover the body." He added a few requests, then returned to the house, where he entered the completed stables around back to find his horse. Within a brief time, he was trotting down the graveled drive in the direction of the local magistrate, Sir William Tabard.
Sir William listened to his tale and made a few notes. Then he joined Nick in his return to the "Folly," discussing the murder as they rode.
It was a relief to have the body taken away. There would be an inquest, of course. But after that Nick decided he would head north to the town of Mansfield to see what he might learn about the mystery man.
His trip to the village had yielded nothing. No one appeared to claim the body, and no one had seen him hereabouts. The innkeeper knew nothing. So ... where had he been staying? With whom? And why didn't he or they question the disappearance of a guest?
* * * *
The days slipped past; the inquest was held. It was determined that the stranger had died of a head injury given him by persons unknown. That he had no friend come forth to claim him, that nothing was known about him, did not help Nick's quest.
Nick discussed the matter with Sir William. "As soon as I am able to get away, I intend to go north to discover what I might. I made a sketch of the man—as best I was able, given my poor talent in that line." Nick grimaced at Sir William, who nodded in understanding. "I will be curious to see what can be learned about the chap— if anything."
"You know that no one around here suspects you of the deed. We have known you all your life. This man was a stranger. I think it is most kind of you to investigate his identity. Not many would bother." He gave Nick a quizzical look.
"I thought that perhaps if I learn who he was, I might also learn who killed him."
Sir William gave a sage nod. "You might also find yourself in a bit of trouble, my lord. Someone who has murdered once might not think twice about murdering a second time, if you see what I mean."
Nick agreed. "Yet this is something I must do. The roads are like to be bad yet. As soon as it clears enough so I don't have to go through axle-deep mud to get there, I'll head north." And, he decided, as long as he was that far north, he might as well go to Scotland. It would be agreeable to enjoy the St. Andrews links again. He might well pick up a few more pointers.
Chapter One
“Well, I think it a great shame that we have a mystery right here in the village, and no one seems the slightest concerned about the poor man who was killed." Tabitha flounced on the sofa, drawing all eyes to her frustrated little self.
"Dear, I am certain the authorities will do all that is necessary." Mrs. Herbert frowned at her youngest. "It is not something a young lady should consider. Murder!"
Nympha shivered from the Gothic image summoned at the very word. It might not be romantic in the true sense of the word, but it brought forth images of dark forms in the night, skulking shadows, daggers, all the things Tabitha found in the Gothic novels from the lending library.
"Soon it will be March. Will Great-Aunt Letitia's traveling coach come before long?" Nympha smoothed the hem of the white crepe dress that had turned out far better than she had dared to hope. Priscilla had created a puffed trim for the lower part of the skirt that was immensely clever. Nympha might not be deemed a dreadful dowd after all. Even if Great-Aunt Letitia was recovering from a fall, surely she would want to see her friends, perhaps attend a local assembly when she felt better. There were a fair number of peers located in that area, not that she expected to encounter the Dukes of Portland or Newcastle, much less the elderly Earl Manvers. She had checked the peerage found in her father's crowded library shelves to see who might reside there. Of course. Lord Byron was younger, but he was also much sought after. Why, even that man visiting the area, Mr. Jared Milburn, declared he intended to spend some time at Newstead Abbey.
It sounded romantic. An abbey. Visions evoked from Tabitha's favorite books, read aloud in the evening, popped into Nympha's mind. Haunted, ivy-covered ruins.
But there must be other, younger, more available gentlemen around. Surely there must be someone who would be presentable and perhaps on the lookout for a wife? That she needed to be wed was undeniable. That no eligible male existed around here was equally true.
"Nympha! Do you hear that? A carriage has drawn up before the rectory. Do you suppose? . . ." Priscilla dashed to the window. "Oh, it is, and it is a splendid coach! You will travel in great style!"
And so she did. Nervous, uncertain as to what was ahead of her, but anxious to depart, Nympha set forth the next day. Instructions to write immediately when she arrived, fond wishes for a fine trip, and hopes that something "good" would come of her journey rang in her ears as the coach moved forth from the rectory drive. A wide-eyed maid—Annie, who had been shared with Priscilla— went along.
* * * *
The same morning, up at the Folly, Nick entered his traveling coach, his valet seated across from him as usual. On a trip of this duration, proper garb and a superior valet guaranteed him the attention he enjoyed—good meals, decent accommodation, and passable horses. It was the only way to travel, in his estimation.
Another small yellow chaise, fondly called a yellow bounder by many, also set forth from the village, headed due north. The horses were not of the highest quality, nor was the postilion inclined to do his best, given the acrimonious nature of his employer. That moody, yet exultant gentleman reclined against the squabs of this vehicle, counting his success before he had achieved it.
* * * *
Nympha perched on the edge of her seat, smoothing the luxurious velvet while admiring the many fine appointments in Great-Aunt Letitia's traveling coach. Mama said her aunt had a lot of money. That was most likely true, if this coach was anything to go by.
Annie sat opposite her, round-eyed and given to breathless comments. She gestured to the little vase mounted on the interior side. "Real flowers, those be, miss. This be a real treat, traveling in style!"
"Delightful, are they not? My, this is the first style of elegance. I wonder what her house is like?"
This thought sent both of them into deep contemplation, although it didn't last long, there being so many things to catch their attention along the road. Farms, flowers, trees, animals, plus a village here and there that they thundered through.
They paused briefly for a bite of nuncheon, the elegant coach commanding the innkeeper's attentiveness and civility. Nympha nibbled her way through a variety of offerings, deciding that if one must travel, this was the way to do so.
It was late in the afternoon when it happened: they hit a portion of deeply rutted road. Although the coachman did the best he could, the coach lurched, seemed to right itself, then lurched again. And slowly, slowly turned on its side.
"Lawks, miss!" Annie cried before a bandbox tumbled on her. She said no more.
"Annie, are you hurt? Oh, dear me," Nympha cried while attempting to open the door that would be closest to the ground. She could make out sky through the other one, and thought that way unsafe to venture.
When the door gave way, she tumbled forth, hitting her head on a rock, her petticoat in a froth about her face. Annie landed right on top of her.
Her head ached. Annie was heavy. Nympha yielded to the overwhelming desire to shut her eyes. Oh, she hurt.
Dimly she heard voices above her. Too full of aches and pains, she ignored them. Then comforting arms picked her up, holding her close to a warm, firm body that smelled somewhat of costmary. She vaguely perceived being placed inside a coach, and knew no more.
* * * *
It was dark when she awoke. Someone had tucked her in a bed. She didn't ache
quite
so much anymore. "Annie? Are you here?" She hoped her maid was recovered and feeling quite the thing. Nympha's head might be a bit fuzzy, but she thought she might get out of bed with help.
"I fear your maid suffered an injury. Her arm was sprained. The apothecary gave her a sedative after binding up her arm. She is sleeping at present. Perhaps I may be of assistance?"
Nympha turned her head at the sound of a beautifully rich male voice coming from the other side of the room. Once she saw the identity of the speaker she closed her eyes again. It couldn't be. Fate couldn't be that cruel.
"Lord Nicholas!"
"The very same," he replied in a dry manner. "And the innkeeper's wife sits close to you at the moment. Never fear, I observe all proprieties."
"Oh, lud!" she whispered. This was not a good beginning to her journey. Not good at all.
Chapter Two
Her petticoat! The last recollection of that dreary garment she so disliked was that it had covered her face when she tumbled from the coach. Whoever had rescued her, whoever had held her close to a comforting chest, must have seen it. How mortifying! She strongly suspected she knew who had observed that intimate bit of apparel, not to mention her white silk stockings and laced blue leather slippers.
"I believe I must thank you for the rescue, my lord," she said with frigid politeness.
"I would have done the same for anyone in that predicament." He continued to lean against the fireplace mantel, one leg casually crossed before the other while he watched her like the neighbor's peregrine falcon watched its prey. Only Lord Nicholas had dark, unfathomable eyes that seemed to see far too much. His hair had that carefully tousled look gentlemen attempted nowadays and few achieved to perfection. He did. That he also possessed a certain air that true gentlemen aimed to achieve also set him apart from ordinary men.
Why did the dratted man have to possess the most marvelously rich voice, the sort that sent little shivers down one's back? It was strange she hadn't noticed it before, but then, it might be that the knock on her head had affected her mind—just a trifle. She grimaced, and immediately the innkeeper's wife, her starched apron crackling as she moved, offered a glass of barley water.
Compelled to sip merely by the look his lordship sent her, Nympha did as was expected of her, then sank back onto her pillows. "How soon may we depart?" Barley water was not her favorite beverage.
"What with all this rain, the road's become a quagmire. Until it is reasonably dry, I fear we must remain here. Besides, your maid is hardly in any condition to travel just yet, nor is your coach repaired." He rubbed his jaw, studying her as if he didn't quite know what to do with her.
"Do not feel compelled to remain here merely because your rector's daughter is slightly inconvenienced." She wanted to order him gone, but she doubted anything she said would have the slightest effect on what he did or didn't do. He truly possessed a lordly air. Now that she thought about it, he was quite as aristocratic in his mien as his older brother, who was heir to the marquess.