Authors: Julianna Deering
Tags: #FIC042030, #FIC022030, #FIC042060, #England—Fiction, #Murder—Investigation—Fiction
Rules of Murder
© 2013 by DeAnna Julie Dodson
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
Ebook edition created 2013
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4412-6152-6
Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
This is a work of historical reconstruction; the appearances of certain historical figures are therefore inevitable. All other characters, however, are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Cover design by Faceout Studio
Cover illustration by John Mattos
Author is represented by Books & Such Literary Agency
To the One who makes
all things new
F
arthering Place stood, as it always had, deep in the grove of oaks at the end of a long curving drive, half hidden from the main road and prying eyes. Nestled in the Hampshire countryside, the old manor house exuded respectability and permanence rather than great beauty, but it had a certain pleasing symmetry that saved it from outright stodginess. Even now, when it was little more than a looming shadow in the darkness, it had a dignified grace of line. Perhaps more so now. Now the lights that would have illuminated any ill-considered behavior had been extinguished and even the heartiest of the revelers had stumbled into a bed of some description.
A midnight-blue 1932 Rolls Royce slowed to a stop as it turned into the drive. Behind the wheel, Drew Farthering took a moment to look over the grounds, bracing himself before going down to the house. Before going home. Judging by the number of cars in the drive, his absence hadn’t prevented Constance from throwing one of her weekend bashes. He hadn’t told anyone to expect him.
Motionless, he surveyed the scene awhile longer. Then he nudged the figure sprawled, sleeping, in the seat next to him.
“We’re here.” He didn’t know why he whispered.
His companion struggled into a more dignified posture and raked one hand through his sandy hair, making it stick up more than it already did.
“Still there, is she, Drew?” he asked through a yawn, and Drew nodded gravely.
“Farthering’s still there, Nick. Always there.”
In another moment they were at the front door and then inside the dimly lit entry hall. Dennison was prompt to answer the bell. As always, he was perfectly groomed and suitably grave, his only concession to the lateness of the hour being the robe and slippers that had supplanted his usual formal attire. Somehow he made even those look dignified and utterly appropriate.
“We weren’t told to expect you, sir. Do come out of the damp.”
He took Drew’s hat, and Drew seized his hand. “How are you, Denny? You’re looking grand.”
“Very well, sir, thank you. I trust Nicholas has remembered his place with you.”
Nick grinned.
“In the middle of whatever mischief I’ve made is his usual place,” Drew said. “He never forgets that.”
Nick threw his arm around the butler’s shoulders and gave them a strong squeeze.
“Propriety,” Dennison reproved.
“Great to see you, Dad,” Nick said, his spirits undampened. “How is the old place?”
“Much less secure since you’ve arrived, I can assure you.”
The two young men laughed.
“Good old Denny,” Drew said. “Farthering wouldn’t be home without you.”
Nick picked up the bags they had brought in from the car. “I’ll haul these up to our rooms, shall I, Dad? You go back to bed.”
Dennison turned to Drew, displaying a rare expression of discomfort as he cleared his throat. “As I said, sir, we weren’t told to expect you. Madam has her guests in for the weekend and—”
“And you’ve had to put someone in Nick’s room. Never mind. He can kip on the divan in my study, can’t you, Nick?”
Nick grinned. “It’s not just my room, is it, Dad?”
“I regret to say, sir, but Madam—”
“She’s put someone in my room.” Drew’s expression grew cool. “And may I ask—”
“Dennison? What’s that noise down there?”
Drew looked up to the top of the gracefully curved stairway. Constance Farthering Parker squinted down at him, straining to see without the glasses she was too vain to wear.
“The master’s come home, madam,” Dennison informed her.
She clutched her pink satin wrapper more closely around her tall frame and, with majestic hauteur, swept down to the entryway. In her middle fifties she still managed to look young and rather pretty in the right light.
“We weren’t expecting you, pet.”
“So I hear,” Drew replied, touching his lips to the rouged cheek she offered. “I hadn’t realized reservations were required.”
“Of course not. It’s just we’ve nowhere to put you and—” she peered at Nick, who beamed at her over Drew’s shoulder—“and young Dennison.”
“I thought we’d agreed my room was off-limits, Mother. Especially after the last time.”
“Now, pet, Honoria couldn’t help it if she was ill.”
“Perhaps she wouldn’t have been ill if she’d stopped at something less than a quart of gin that night.”
Nick snickered and then, under Constance’s glare, coughed decorously.
“And just who have you put in my room this time?” Drew pressed.
“A friend of Mason’s.” Constance looked down and then up at him again, her eyes wide with innocence. “Really, Ellison, we didn’t know you were coming this weekend, and we’ll be full up with guests after tomorrow.”
Drew scowled. His mother was the only one who called him Ellison. No one else dared.
“I suppose, as usual, my wishes weren’t to be considered.”
“Now, pet, really. Couldn’t you—?”
“You’d think, with all the rooms in this house, you might have put him somewhere other than my room. That’s not asking too much, is it, in view of—”
“In view of the fact that you are lord of the manor and I’m only living here on your charity?”
Her voice cracked with sudden anger, and Drew resisted the urge to snap back at her.
“In view of the fact that it
is
my room, I was going to say, Mother. Who is it anyway?”
“I told you, a friend of Mason’s.” Again she looked away.
“Who?”
“He’s only staying the weekend.”
“Who is it?”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said with a defiant lift of her chin, and Drew turned to the butler.
“Who is it, Denny?”
“A certain Mr. Lincoln, sir,” Dennison said in his most impersonal tone.
“Lincoln!” Drew stared at his mother in disbelief. “By Harry, I’ll not have him in my house, let alone my own room.”
He took the steps two at a time, deaf to his mother’s demands that he come back and collect himself. He’d heard what was said
about his mother and Lincoln two years ago in Monte Carlo. He wasn’t about to let that sort of thing go on in his own home, right under his stepfather’s nose.
He pushed open the door to his room, and a shaft of light from the hall fell across the heavy four-poster bed. He could see Lincoln clearly as he slept—tall, powerfully built, his blond hair slicked back to show his broad aristocratic forehead. An ostentatious ruby ring gleamed on his right hand. Drew hated him cordially and regretted ever having been introduced to him.
He strode to the bedside, took hold of the muscular arm that lay over the sheet, and dragged Lincoln out onto the Persian rug. Sputtering and cursing, Lincoln sprang to his feet, but Drew didn’t give him a chance to protest.
“Collect your things,” Drew said, his voice tight and low. “I want you out in five minutes.”
“Look here, Farthering—”
“Five minutes and not an instant longer.”
Lincoln took a step toward Drew, who only eyed him with cool disdain.
“Drew, please.” Mason Parker came into the room, bringing with him his usual air of calm sensibility. “I’m sure Mr. Lincoln meant nothing of the kind.”
Seeing Mason, Lincoln’s expression abruptly turned from anger to good-natured bewilderment. “I think we’ve had rather a misunderstanding—”
“Hardly!” Drew spat.
“He is our houseguest after all, Drew,” Mason said. “I trust you will treat him as such.”
“But, sir,” Drew protested, his consideration for his stepfather wrestling with his anger. “This man—”
“Drew.” Mason put his arm around his stepson’s shoulders and took him aside. “Your mother told me what you’ve heard
about Monte Carlo, and I can assure you none of it is true. Mr. Lincoln and I have some business dealings to attend to, and I asked him to stay the weekend with the others. I hope that doesn’t inconvenience you too much.”
Drew pressed his lips together and quickly counted ten. “Sir, listen to me.” He lowered his voice, seeing Nick and Dennison and Constance were clustered in the doorway looking on. “I don’t like to see you deceived, especially in your own—”
“Drew!” His stepfather was as close to being angry as Drew had ever seen him, though he too kept his voice low. “Don’t let’s quarrel now. I refuse to listen to idle gossip and trust you will do the same. You of course have the right to eject from your home anyone you do not wish to entertain. But I hope, for your mother’s sake and mine, that you will remember yourself and manage a little hospitality while Mr. Lincoln is our guest. Please.”
Drew counted ten once more, this time letting each number squirm and simmer before passing on to the next.
“I want my room back,” he said at last. “And Nick’s.”
Mason smiled and turned to Lincoln. “Sorry about the misunderstanding.”
“Not at all. Not at all. I’d no idea I was putting anyone out,” Lincoln said, his smile sheepish. “Bit embarrassing and all that.”
“I hope you’ll let bygones be bygones and stay with us for the party. Dennison will see you have another room.”
“Thank you, Mr. Parker.” Lincoln put a robe over his silk pajamas. “No harm done.”
Mason patted Constance’s hand. “There, my dear. No harm done.”
“I’m so glad, darling,” she said, her expression meek and worshipful as she clung to his arm. “Good night, Mr. Lincoln.”
“Mrs. Parker,” Lincoln said with a formal bow.
Mason led Constance away, and Dennison came into the room to gather Lincoln’s things.
“This way, sir,” he said after a moment. “It’s just through those doors and up the stairs.”
Drew was standing near the door, his arms folded across his chest, begrudging every minute the other man spent in his room.
“Good night, Farthering,” Lincoln said as he followed Dennison out into the hallway, the knowing nastiness in his expression belying his mild words. “Should be a charming weekend, eh?”
“Charming,” Drew replied, managing a cool, brittle smile of his own. “So good to have you. You must come again sometime.”
Lincoln walked away, chuckling to himself, and Drew slammed the door behind him, making the old leaded windows rattle in their frames.
“Steady on, old man,” Nick said, and then he grinned. “No place like home, eh?”
Drew could only laugh.
Drew had breakfast out on the terrace with his stepfather the next morning. It was sweetly June, balmy and green, but the mist still clung to the ground in wisps. It hadn’t yet burned off the rolling meadow behind the house, and last night’s revelers hadn’t yet left their beds.
He smiled over at Mason. The old boy looked the perfect picture of comfortable middle age—thinning on top, thickening in the middle, kindly laugh lines at the corners of his uncritical eyes—a middle age that asked nothing but tranquility and graciousness.
“I apologize for last night, sir,” Drew said, spooning honey into his tea. “But I hadn’t expected of all people—”
“Don’t let’s go into that again,” Mason said briskly. “Tell me, how was the seaside? You and young Nick look in top form.”
“I hope I won’t sound too spoilt and all, but I’m beginning to find it rather a bore. All they do is sit and drink and gossip about the latest scandal. That is when they’re not stirring one up.”
“And, it goes without saying, you young chaps never get into any deviltry yourselves.”
Drew answered his stepfather’s indulgent grin with a shrug and a mischievous smile of his own.
“Can’t say Nick and I haven’t got up to a prank or two, sir. Just now and again.”
Mason laughed. “And no young lady you’ve wanted to bring home?”
“What, out of that lot?” Drew made a face.
“What about Colonel Saxonby’s daughter?” Mason offered. “Or that Pomphrey-Hughes girl? She seems to like you. Surely there must be some decent girls in society.”
Drew stirred more honey into his tea. “Of course there are. I just haven’t been introduced to them yet. Still, for a dance or a drink or a day on the beach, there’s nobody can touch them. But when I get serious about a girl, I’d rather it was one who hadn’t already strolled round the corner with all of my friends.”
Mason looked away, and Drew cleared his throat.
“I’m sorry, sir.” He rattled his teacup back into the saucer. “I do tend to ramble on when I get talking. Truly, the coast was very nice. Beautiful weather. The sea was lovely, and Bunny, you remember Bunny, sir—”
“Please don’t.”
“Sir?”
“Don’t talk airy pleasantries to me. Heaven knows I’ve enough of that as it is. People talk to me for hours and say absolutely nothing.”
“Sir—”
“And must it always be ‘sir,’ Drew? I’ve been married to your mother for more than ten years now. Must it always be ‘sir’?”
Drew shifted in his chair.
“I suppose I never knew what else I should call you,” he said, making his tone light. “I always thought ‘Mr. Parker’ a bit Victorian and ‘Mason’ rather cheeky. What do you suggest?”
“I wouldn’t presume to ask you to call me Father, knowing how you feel about your own. And I know I’ve not been much of a father to you as it is. Dennison’s seen to you all this while. I don’t know, my boy. I suppose it’s just that ‘sir’ seems so distant.”
Drew gave him a small, warm smile.
“If it is, I don’t mean it to be. You’re one of the finest men I know, and I’ve more respect for you than just about anyone else in the world.”