Big News!

To encourage the completion of the sequel, and generate interest in the series, I am putting the revised second edition of 'Lord Foxbridge Butts In' on sale for 99¢ in the Kindle version! (and free for Kindle Unlimited)

Day Twenty-One (Seven)

 The various plantings had not suffered equally: the manicured privet borders with their deeper roots had fared the best, standing straight and neat; the shallow-rooted herbaceous borders and floral medallions were completely washed out, the few winter blooms bedraggled and bestrewn all over the place; the rolled lawns in between had lifted up in places, sheets and patches of sod laid back down further down the garden when the waters retreated. Ornaments stood straight or canted drunkenly in their places, and everything was covered in a thick film of browny-black silt. 

Various objects apparently lifted from the bed of the Thames by the flood were littered about, as well: some dead fish and oyster shells being pecked at by enterprising gulls, bits of weed-furred lumber, broken crockery and furniture, and lumpy-looking sacks of God-knows-what were spread around evenly.

Halfway down the second parterre, however, I spotted a familiar shape that had me coving my face and muttering "Oh, for crying out loud."

One might have suspected it was a mummy from the museum, it was laying so neatly composed in a shallow depression surrounded by miniature hedges where clumps of colorful perrenials had lain, so perfectly molded in mud-soaked fabric that you could make out that the body was male, fairly young, and probably handsome. But instead of narrow strips of linen, the body was wrapped in a fine sheet that rippled over the body where it had billowed loose during the deluge without coming apart.

"Is that a statue?" Kiro wondered when he stopped to see what I was staring at so intently, "I don't  remember any statues of that size in the garden, did it fall off the roof?"

Day Eighteen (Six)

 "Certainly makes decorating an embassy easier," I suggested with a smile as we moved into the White Drawing Room, the long oval at the center of the enfilade of rooms facing the Thames, and possibly the most spectacular room in the house though not the largest.

"Oh, absolutely, it was a dream moving in here. Converting this house to our Embassy was easier to do than holding the inaugural ball. I made the mistake of remaining unmarried, I had no idea an Embassy would require a hostess," he patted my hand as we moved into the Red Drawing Room, more cluttered and intimate than the other rooms, though just as grand, used for smaller gatherings, "Fortunately we had the excellent Coldicott, who knew exactly what Lady Vere would have done and duplicated her expertise for us."

"Mummy was very fond of giving parties," I smiled at the memory of these rooms filled with people laughing and chatting and dancing, "She had a talent for making people feel at ease and excited to be here at the same time."

Day Fourteen (or Five, depending how you count)

Tea was laid out on a table in the round bay windows flanked by elegant Louis XV chairs with watered silk upholstery. The china was English, though bearing the Herzoslovakian crest, Royal Stafford at a guess (confirmed by looking at the bottom of the saucer); but the tea was distinctly Slavic, so strong it could pass for coffee and intensely flavored with orange-peel and rose-hips, accompanied by large richly-spiced biscuits covered in confectioner's sugar.

We chatted in a thoroughly English fashion about the weather, which had been dramatic enough of late to see us through a first cup of tea, but it was cut short by the appearance of the Ambassador just as we were contemplating a second cup.

"Lord Foxbridge, how delightful!" he caroled gaily into the room, neat and handsome in a Poole morning suit as sharply tailored as my own, the dim light flashing in his inkblack eyes and over his pomaded hair and curled mustache, "I only just learned of your arrival, naughty Kiro keeping you to himself."

"An honour to meet you, Your Excellency," I rose and formally greeted the man; though not as handsome as Radovanovich, he was rather more attractive to me with his merry liquid black eyes and that scintillating mustache (it's a weakness of mine), and his Slavic accent was more pronounced under a mere surface glaze of Eton, adding an exotic charm to his words.

"Count Plamenatz, if I may present to you Viscount Foxbridge," Radovanovich stepped forward as I shook the Ambassador's hand to effect formal introductions, "Lord Foxbridge, his Excellency Count Mirko Plamenatz, Ambassador of the Kingdom of Herzoslovakia to the Court of Saint James."

"Oh but you must call me Mirko," Count Plamenatz insisted, still holding my hand and rubbing his thumb along mine discreetly, "We are all Old Etonians, are we not?"

"Of course, then you must call me Foxy," I had intended to ask the Embassy folk to call me Sebastian, if we graduated to Christian names, as this was a grown-up sort of occasion with me representing my family; but so many mentions of Eton had me offering up my school nickname instead. 

"Kiro, please," Radovanovitch bowed a little with his hand to his chest when Plamenatz looked at him expectantly for a long moment; he seemed surprised to find us at this stage of acquaintance so soon, but following his chief's lead, broke the tension with a graceful gesture, "Would you care for tea, sir?"

"No, thank you, I've already had my tea," Mirko hooked his arm through mine and pulled me from the room into the corridor, "I'd love to look over the house with Foxy and hear about what it was like to grow up here!"

"Oh, I never really lived here," I explained as I was swept up the main staircase to the first floor, "I was seldom brought to Town as a child, a few trips to visit museums and Parliament, and then Christmas shopping outings, visit my grandfather occasionally, and to see Mummy's annual ball in May. I wasn't allowed to come at all during the War. I'd be hard-pressed to remember which room was mine, to tell the truth."

"Well you can tell me about your mother," he patted my hand solicitously, "I have heard much about Lady Vere since I came here, her beauty and charm, a perfect hostess. My sincerest condolences on her loss, of course."

"Thank you, that's very kind," I smiled back but felt rather uncomfortable discussing my mother and flirting with a new friend at the same time; we'd come into the Blue Drawing Room, which was fairly sparsely furnished with delicate armchairs and settees grouped around small tables, easily rearranged into a ballroom or a theatre, "You don't seem to have changed anything, I'd have thought you'd make it more in the style of your homeland."

"Most of the paintings are from home," Mirko pointed to a few clunky-looking landscapes and dim portraits of dour nobles in peculiar dress that had replaced the St. Clair portraits, though all the still-life and landscape paintings I remembered belonging to the house were in situ, "But the aristocracy of Herzoslovakia have been so Anglophile for so long that Herzosolovakian style is just English style, though we tend more toward darker colours at home."

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Day Four

Coldicott took my coat and hat and brolly into room off the foyer and then conducted me down the side corridor and knocked on a door halfway down, which he opened and announced "Lord Foxbridge, sir" inside, then stood to the side to allow me to pass.

I stepped into a small dark office lined with cabinets to chin height with a lightless window and a harsh ovehead lamp, which I think but am not sure used to be a secondary coat closet in Mummy's day, and was confronted by a tall and stupefyingly handsome young man coming at me with his hand out.

"Good afternoon, Lord Foxbridge," the vision said in a beautiful deep voice of pure Etonian vowels and not a whisper or scintilla of an accent, "I am Kiro Radovanovitch, the charge-d'affaires of the Embassy."

"Dobro popladne, gospodine Radovanovitch," I shook his hand, garbling the Serbian greeting I'd memorized on the way over.

"That's very good," he blinded me with a dazzling smile, still holding my hand, "I remember you from Eton, though I don't believe we actually met, different years and different Houses. You are remarkably unchanged." 

"Golly, how mortifying," I laughed, "I still look twelve?"

"More fourteen or fifteen, as you were when I matriculated," he laughed back, "But it's more that your colouring and looks are so distinctive, I'd recognize you anywhere."

"I'm sorry I don't remember you," I packed a little flirtation into the sentence, but not so much that he couldn't ignore it if he chose, "You were in Manor House, weren't you?"

"Yes indeed, and you were in Godolphin," he didn't respond to the flirtation, but was still holding my hand, so I was getting mixed signals, "I doubt anyone would remember me from my Eton days, I was not notable, I played no games and seldom left my study."

"That's a shame," I said, trying to imagine a beauty like this hiding in his study. But it would be why I didn't remember him, as I made a point of collecting the best-looking older boys.

"Would you care to tour the grounds, Lord Foxbridge? There was no damage in the house from the flood, the basement is remarkably watertight, but the garden is in shambles."

"Oh quite, quite," I scrambled to remember why I was there in the first place, "I suppose my Pater would want me to take a dekko at the cellars, but I wouldn't know what water-damage looks like, so unless your kitchen staff are in waders I can take your word for it."

"The flood came right to the edge of the terrace, but it appears the architect took it for granted that the Thames would flood someday, and there's an excellent drainage system around the house."

"That's good to know," I stepped back a bit as Radovanovitch sidled past me to open the door again, "I expect the drainage was put in when the Embankment was built. Drainage was so much on everyone's minds in those days."

"I asked Coldicott to serve tea in the Garden Room when you arrived, and we'll take a look at the grounds after, if that is amenable."

"Oh, quite, quite," I agreed and followed him back out into the corridor and through a rather more grand doorway to the Garden Room, a place I remembered well and was entirely unchanged, down to the placement of the delicate Louis XVI chairs covered in flowered chintz that matched the Adam-designed murals and ceiling. It looked rather grimly chilly with the rain still coming down, though not as heavily as in the morning.


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Day Three

There wasn't much changed, or at least I didn't notice anything--but then I'd never spent a lot of time in Vere House, and Georgian furniture and paintings of views are very much of a muchness, so they might have changed everything and it would still look the same to me.

The only real change I noticed was a huge portrait in the hall of King and Queen of Herzoslovakia, a handsome blond couple who looked no different from English aristocrats except for their peculiarly ugly Eastern regalia; but then the Queen was English, and the King had been passing himself off as an Englishmen for years while he waited for the Republic that had murdered his parents to fall, so it stands to reason.

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Day Two

"Welcome, Lord Foxbridge, so nice to see you again," the man said, and I realized I knew him—it was Young Coldicott, our Coldicott's son, who had been butler at Vere House since Mummy became Countess. Identical to his father at Foxbridge, he was a tall and handsome soldierly type of forty or so, and despite the foreign livery looked exactly like had eight years before.

"Oh, Coldicott! How nice to see you, I had no idea you were here."

"Lord Vere retained me and a handful of staff when he closed the house," he bowed and gestured for me to come inside, "due to the long association between our families. And His Excellency the Ambassador kept us on with the lease."

"That's lovely," I followed the man into the house, looking around with interest to see what the Herzoslovakians had done with the place.

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Day One

An hour or so later, I rolled down Whitehall Garden to the back corner where a relatively unassuming gatehouse concealed the grandeur of Vere House; taking a sharpish turn to line up with the narrow arch, I encountered a pair of very tall young men in rather opulent uniforms of claret serge and gold braid crossing wicked-looking halberds festooned with red and gold ribbons. Above the arch, a gaily coloured all-weather sort of tapestry sporting the arms of Herzoslovakia obscured the stone St. Clair escutcheon, though the "VERE HOUSE" inscribed below remained for the guidance of post and deliveries.

The young sentries stared stonily at me an uncomfortably long moment, then stepped smartly to each side with their halberds raised to allow me passage. I drove very carefully through the dark tunnel of the arch, then into the small courtyard, just big enough to turn a car (or a coach-and-four) in a tight circle around a pretty ornamental fountain. On the left was another dark archway leading to the garages, and the right contained a completely useless little arcade with some statues standing around in elaborately casual poses against the blank wall of the house next door. Front center was of course the main house, five bays wide and rising three storeys of decreasing height surmounted by a pediment and balustrade with more statues standing about waiting for a tram that wasn't coming. The house continued with an extension to the left, overlooking the motor court, added on to the house in the middle of the 18th century.

Pulling into the courtyard gave me an unexpected pang of sorrow: I hadn't been to Vere House since Mummy's funeral, eight years before, and the intervening time had not dissipated the sense of tragedy that had stained the house on that day. The Herzoslovakian flag, though festively coloured, didn't make enough of a difference to erase the sight of black buntings that had hung over each balcony in my memory.

I didn't have a lot of time to wallow in sorrow, as another liveried gent, a little older and less ostentatiously braided than the sentries on the gatehouse, came out onto the porch to greet me.

"Welcome, Lord Foxbridge," the man said in a charming Slavic accent.

"Is it alright to leave my motor here?" I asked, ascending the steps.

"Of course, my lord, we are not expecting any other visitors today. Won't you step this way?" 

I duly stepped and followed the man into the house, looking around with interest at what changed had been made since I last entered this house. It had been let furnished but it was furnished as town home rather than an embassy; but they didn't do much but move a few pieces of furniture around and add a massive painting of their king and queen in the main hall

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NaNoWriMo 2024

Ten years later, here I am again picking up Lord Foxbridge for a month, and furthering what I'm projecting to be the second half of the third book. The first half will be "The Verevale Hunt," which I got pretty far into but didn't finish in 2014. I still have to tweak up the second book, too, but I am excited to get back into his world.

This story is going to be about the Herzoslovakian Embassy, which is situated in Foxy's family home in London; visiting the mansion after a catastrophic storm and flood in January 1928 (which actually happened) Foxy discovers a body that had been buried in the garden rather recently and been unearthed by the flood. The main characters will be the ambassador, his charge d'affaires, and his military attache; the body, who turns out to be a rentboy whom Foxy knows called Magpie; Foxy's father the Earl of Vere, his mentor Lord Arthur Longueville aka Silenus, and his lover Twister (Sir Oliver Paget). Various others will turn up here and there but those are the stars.

Here's what I wrote last year when I tried the same thing for NaNoWriMo 2023 but didn't get very far.

I used AI to make up portraits of the dramatis personae specific to this story:

His Excellency Count Mirko Dimitri Plamenatz, Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary of the Kingdom of Herzoslovakia to the Court of Saint James (born 1893)

Kiro Radovanovitch (Radovanović), Chargé d'Affaires to the Embassy (in charge of the facilities) - born 1903, friend of Prince Nicholas of Romania while at Eton.

Colonel (Pukovnik) Miladin Djukanovitch (Đukanović), Military Attaché (in charge of security), born 1887

"The Magpie" - Antony Nuttall, born 1907

If you're a big fan of Agatha Christie, you may recognize the name Herzoslovakia, I lifted it bodily from her early funfest The Secret of Chimneys, along with the names of the king and queen, assuming that the world of Christie's book into the same universe as mine. I did the same in the first book with characters from P.G. Wodehouse. It's an idea that I had before I read James Anderson's Burford mysteries, but understood how to do it when I read The Affair of the Blood-Stained Egg Cosy.

In the meantime, you can read the unfinished draft of "The Verevale Hunt" here; it will, with "The Magpie at the Embassy", comprise Lord Foxbridge Goes To Town someday in the not so different future.

So, wish me luck! Over the top we go...

NaNoWriMo 2014 - Day 29

I give up.

NaNoWriMo 2014 - Day 28

I woke obscenely early next morning, having gone to bed obscenely early and slept like a very tired log; it was the first time in a long time that I'd woken up before Pond arrived with my coffee (not counting my fortnight at Bourneham, which was so unusual as a whole that it had already taken on a dreamlike quality in my memory), and I was rather at a loss what to do with myself.  Out of sheer boredom, I got up and had a bath, then started dressing myself.

Pond arrived when I was halfway done, with a silent red-eyed Massingale in tow (the boy hadn't been out of Pond's sight all night), and finished me up in my soberest Sunday suit, though I had no intention of going to church that morning.  As soon as I was dressed and had a couple of cups of coffee, I headed downstairs; it was still too early for breakfast, so I went to Lord Levondale's study, where the only telephone was located.

Telephoning to London on a Sunday was a tedious business, waiting ages to get through to the Lewes exchange and then to the Brighton exchange and then to the Westminster exchange, all of which were staffed by the absolute minimum number of operators in observance of the Sabbath.  And when I finally got through to Hyacinth House, the night porter was still on duty, and he wasn't sure he was allowed to ring Silenus's rooms or tell me if he was even in the hotel.  

I finally got the night porter to go wake up the hotel manager, who told me that Silenus was not in residence, but could most likely be reached at his brother's house in Devon, whither his messages and post were being forwarded.  Then I had to start all over again, from Lewes to Brighton to Exeter to Gelford, then getting hold of someone at Lydelands, the ancestral home of the Dukes of Gelford.

"Well, Sebastian, what gets you out of bed at such an unearthly hour?" Silenus's voice came booming jovially over the line.

"It's Jingo Faringdon," I said simply and perhaps a bit brutally, ignoring my own advice about revealing too much over the telephone, "He's been murdered."

"Oh, dear," he gasped, "My dear boy, I'll come right away.  Where are you?"

"I'm at Verevale Court in Sussex, a few miles south of Lewes."

"That will take me some time to reach," he said, and I could hear him flipping the pages of a book, an atlas or an ABC, I couldn't tell, "But I think I can get there by tea-time."

"I am relieved," I admitted, though I wasn't sure if I should ask Lady Levondale to invite him to stay, or let him make his own arrangements, "In the meantime, do you know anything about Detective Chief Inspector Netley of the Brighton CID?"

"I know of Netley, though I don't know him personally.  Immensely clever, but without ambition," he sounded thoughtful, and I could see him in my mind's eye, leaning back in a chair and folding his hands over his tummy--though of course he must have been holding a telephone receiver, so couldn't possibly be sitting like that, "I've always found it a propitious combination.  I think you can probably trust him as well as you trusted Summerill."

"That's a relief," I said, "I was rather suspiciously vague in my statements last night, not knowing how much I could tell him."

"Just remember that you can't help Jingo, now," he advised, "Protecting Dotty and yourself are your only responsibilities.  I'll see you soon."

He rung off then, and I sat at Lord Levondale's desk feeling rather blank with too many emotions: I was immensely relieved that Silenus was coming, but telling him about Jingo had reinspired the grief I'd felt the night before while keeping watch over his body, and so the relief was well-mixed with desolation.  

It was still too early for breakfast, though, so I took some paper from the desk and started writing out the statement that I knew Netley would require from me later.  I was painstakingly meticulous about it, just to kill time, and when I was done writing I bound the pages together with red string and sealing-wax, impressing my coat of arms onto each blob with the almost effeminately flashy carved garnet swivel-ring I'd recently taken to wearing (it was a family heirloom, 18th century, else I probably wouldn't have dared).

I folded the statement up and put it into my pocket, then went into the dining-room, where quite a lot of people were already having breakfast.  Despite my hunger, I was oddly reluctant to eat once I was confronted by the regiment of covered dishes, something about gorging myself while Jingo lay dead seemed somehow distasteful; but I had to eat, so I filled my plate with kidneys and porridge, neither of which I particularly care for, as a sop to conscience.

"Lady Levondale, I wonder if you could recommend an hotel," I sat down beside my hostess, having come up with a good cover-story to explain Silenus's impending arrival, "Lord Faringdon's godfather, Lord Arthur Longueville, wanted to come and lend his support, but I didn't know if there was any place suitable that could accommodate him."

"I hadn't realised their families were close," she sounded surprised, as I'd rather expected she would: having even a minor Longueville as your godfather is something people are likely to mention, the name being among the most illustrious in England, "But I won't hear of an hotel, Lord Arthur must come stay here.  I wonder where, though; I hate to put him on the third floor."

"I'm happy to change rooms, if it's any help," I offered.

"Do you think I should ask Lord Faringdon's brother and mother here, too?" she wondered, slightly baffled by the unexpected situation, "Lady Faringdon mightn't be able to go home until after the inquest, but I'm sure she'd want family around her in this trying time.  But I've never met them, and asking a family in mourning to come stay with strangers, I'd hate to be impertinent."

"I'm sure they would be delighted to come, Lady Levondale," I assured her.  I hadn't thought of poor Pongo or the Dowager Marchioness, "I'll telephone for you, if you like."

"You're very kind, Lord Foxbridge," she took my hand and squeezed it gratefully, "Such a help.  If you'll excuse me, I have to go talk to my housekeeper."

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36,223 Total Words

NaNoWriMo 2014 - Day 27

The corridor was full of people, though, spilling in from the gallery overlooking the rotunda; fortunately they were intent on their own business (canoodling--though how the American magazines mean it, rather than the activity for which I'd adopted the word for my personal use) and didn't pay any attention to me and my unorthodox attire.  Well, one person noticed: at the far end of the corridor was Pond, standing in an elaborately casual manner in front of the door into the Faringdons' rooms and eyeing my muddy boots with horror.

"I wasn't expecting you to stand guard, Pond," I said as I came up to him.

"I deemed it wise, my lord," he responded, his eyes still riveted to the poor boots, "Until we know why and by whom Lord Faringdgon was killed, I think we can assume that Lady Faringdon and her servants are targets as well."

"Well, certainly, that's why I asked for you to be informed.  Are you armed or anything?"

"No, my lord, but I have been carrying things up here for Lady Faringdon so her servants don't have to come out, and to make sure nothing poisoned is brought in."

"I guess I'd better go in and talk to Dotty, pay condolences and all," I sighed, not looking forward to the encounter; Pond opened the door for me and I passed into the little passageway connecting the dressing-room and bedroom, knocking on the bedroom door, "Dotty?  It's Foxy, may I come in?"

"Oh, Foxy," she pulled me into the room and threw her arms around my neck, "This is terrible, what are we going to do?"

"I honestly don't know, Dotty," patted her on the back, "I'll call Silenus first thing in the morning, he'll know how to handle the police here."

"I didn't mean about the police," she let go of me and stalked over to the side-table where a box of cigarettes stood.  She was wearing a dark-blue velvet pajama sort of outfit with mink trim, and looked terrifically glamourous as she lit a cigarette and stalked around the room some more, "I mean about who killed Jingo and whether or not that person intends to come after me, and poor Stephen and Nadia."

"Stephen and...?" the names threw me off, though I figured out she meant the servants before I finished the query.  They were huddled together on a settee next to the roaring fire, the young valet weeping and the Gypsy maid comforting him, "You'll be safe here.  Pond can keep an eye out for Massingale tonight, since they're rooming together, and Wickson can stay here with you.  We'll figure out something long-term tomorrow."

"Thank Pond for us, he's been extremely kind this evening," Dotty stopped stalking and looked suddenly scared and weak, "How am I going to go on without him, Foxy?"

"I don't know," I responded again, feeling terrifically inadequate, "I'm sure you'll manage somehow."

"Yes, I suppose I will," she gave me a long, sad look, "I always manage.  But I loved him, I really did."

"I'm sorry," I didn't really understand what I was supposed to say: this wasn't your ordinary sort of condolence call, there was no formula for it.

"Thank you, Foxy," she sighed heavily and sat down on the elaborate couch in the middle of the room, "You'd better go, now.  I expect you missed dinner, you should go get something to eat.  Thank you so much for all your help."

"If there's anything at all I can do, just holler," I said, edging out of the door, "I'm going to take Pond with me for a bit, but he'll be back shortly."

"How is her ladyship?" Pond asked when I came out of the room.

"She's seems to be doing well enough," I replied, "She has a lot of toughness in her.  I'm starving, do you think you could get me something to eat?"

"I've already arranged supper in your room, my lord," he walked along the corridor with me.

"Thank you, Pond.  If you could help me get these boots off, you can take Massingale back down to the servants' hall and get some rest."
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35,137 Total Words

NaNoWriMo 2014 - Day 26

When I got back to the house I was shocked to discover the Hunt Ball still in progress, the windows bright and cheerful music coming through the open front door.  I shouldn't have been surprised, it was only just after ten o'clock, and I had been explicit about not letting anyone other than Lord Levondale and Dotty know what had happened.  But it was a shock, nevertheless, and I found myself resenting the people inside for having a good time while I'd been off in the freezing dark woods mourning a murdered friend.

I also resented myself for suddenly thinking of Jingo as a friend now that he was dead, all his crimes forgiven and his memory fluffed about with a halo of regret for all my hard words to him.  I was angry at myself, too, for going all weepy and maudlin over the murder of someone I know when I had previously viewed the murders of strangers as merely interesting intellectual exercise.  It made sense that I would feel that way, a friend and a stranger will inspire entirely different emotional responses, that's what friendship is for; nevertheless, I felt like a hypocrite for all the tears I'd never shed for William, or for any of the other dead men I'd encountered in my travels.

Wearing a groom's boots and a coachman's coat over my evening clothes, all liberally besmattered with mud, I was anxious to get to my rooms without passing through the ball; going through the Hunt Room and a circuit of low corridors, I was able to get to take one of the corkscrew staircases from the ground-floor to the corridor outside my rooms.  
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34,444 Total Words

NaNoWriMo 2014 - Day 25

Nope.  Not today.

NaNoWriMo 2014 - Day 24

"Oh, Jingo!" I sighed--or I sobbed, I can't swear to it--and sat down hard at the base of a tree.

"Is it Lord Faringdon, my lord?" Daughtry came over and shone his own light on the body.  The knife-handle glinted brightly, a fairly ordinary hunting-knife with the Levondale crest carved on the bone inlay.

"You'd better go back and call for the police," I said, trying to force my mind into the comfortable task of organisation, "And inform Lord Levondale while you're at the house.  Ask him to inform Lady Faringdon and to set my man Pond to care for her and her servants.  But nobody else can know yet, and please do not use the word 'murder' on the telephone or mention Lord Faringdon by name.  Say 'death' or 'accident,' and 'a guest'; you never know who might be listening, and we don't want rumours flying ahead of an investigation."

"Yes, my lord," the stablemaster blinked at my sudden authoritative tone; he went back and remounted gracefully, but was reluctant to go, "Are you sure you should stay here alone, my lord?  What if the killer is still about?"

"I'll be fine," I got to my knees and started examining the body--Jingo's body--as best I could in the lantern's light, "He's been dead for hours, the killer is long gone by now.  Oh, go back by way of the river, would you? And bring the police here that way. We don't want a lot of traffic over that path we came in by, there may be clues."

"Very good, my lord," he submitted doubtfully, and went off through the willows to follow the riverbank out of the wood.

I knelt there for the longest time, my eyes darting around and recording evidence, but my mind reeling.  I had been half-expecting to find a body from the minute Dotty came to my door, Jingo's criminal activities made it almost inevitable that he'd be murdered sooner or later. Besides, it had become such a habit with me to find bodies that it no longer surprised me.

But even half-expecting it, I was bowled over by the reality of it.  I couldn't get over how similar this was to William's murder, the body in a similar position, the knife in a similar position, that same look of pained surprise on his face.  And I really couldn't get over the fact that this was Jingo, someone I knew intimately, someone who'd been a major influence on my young life, someone I'd sort-of-loved once.  That handsome face, that beautiful body, that rampaging sexuality, all that charm and all that wickedness, brutally snuffed out and gone from the world.  I found myself weeping, it was just too terrible to be borne.

But borne it must be.  After drying my eyes, I lifted Jingo's arm to test for rigor mortis; it was stiff but not yet immovable, which I knew meant he had probably been dead more than three or four hours but less than twelve; I'd seen him alive about seven hours earlier, so the time of death was sometime between noon-ish, when the hunt left this covert, and four o'clock.  The front of his waistcoat and the top of his breeches were drenched in blood, in a pattern that suggested running downward, so he'd likely been standing when he was stabbed, and the amount of blood indicated that the knife had been twisted around or pulled partway out and pushed back in, allowing for a substantial escape of blood.

As Silenus had taught me, I stood and faced a tree, miming stabbing motions with a short stick to get an idea of where the killer had been standing, how tall he might have been, if he'd been left-handed or right, if he'd held the knife with his thumb on the hilt or on the pommel, in order for the weapon to be standing at the angle it was.

I decided that the killer was right-handed and about the same height as Jingo, a little taller than me; he'd held the knife with his thumb on the hilt, and stabbed straight forward into the center of the solar plexus, then twisted the knife upward and to the side to slice the lungs and pierce the heart.  I further believed that the killer had held fast to Jingo's stock while he did this, as the white linen was wrinkled  and creased in a way that suggested being crumpled in a fist, and the stock-pin was bent.

The knife was easily recognised, one of the dozen kept on an open rack in the gun-room, which was right next door to the ground-floor room where we'd had our hunt breakfast; anyone could have taken it during the meal, or even days ago; so unless the killer hadn't worn gloves, there was no clue there.  The killer would have got a great deal of blood on him, though, so that might give us a lead if we examined people's clothes.

Getting up from my position, I replaced the blanket to what I hoped to be its original position, and went over to have a look at the horse and saddle.  The reins had been tied to a strong branch of the tree with an ordinary slip-hitch, not a fanciful sailor's hitch or anything distinctive like that.  The saddle was set neatly upright on the ground, the girth and stirrups tucked underneath--except for the left stirrup-leather, which had most likely held the stirrup we'd found outside the wood, and was fortuitously lying outside of the saddle so I could look at it without moving the evidence.

The leather strap was cut partway through across the underside, with a razor or a very sharp knife, and had torn the rest of the way to the surface.  I didn't know how long it would take for a cut like that to pull apart during a ride, but it seemed the killer would have had to know that in order to be on the spot when Jingo's stirrup-leather broke.  Could the killer have known exactly when the leather would break, though?

It seemed chancy to me, but it also struck me as a reasonable method to get someone to drop out of a hunt and loiter around in a predetermined range of space: one doesn't notice the underside of a stirrup-leather like one does a rein, and one doesn't pull hard enough on the reins for such a trick to work; and if the girth had gone, the victim would have fallen off and might have been injured, whereupon he'd be escorted back to the house. But a stirrup could go without your falling, you'd get down and have a look at it, and probably wouldn't notice the cut, only the tear; finding you couldn't fix it, anyone who stopped and asked if you needed assistance would be sent on, leaving you alone and on foot as the hunt disappeared into the distance.

To cut that stirrup, someone would have had to gain access to the stables sometime between the last time Jingo used the saddle, which would have been three or four o'clock the previous day (Jingo was a daily rider, like me, but always went out after lunch and returned before tea), and before Sirocco was saddled for the hunt.  It would be easy to find it in the tack-room, since Jingo had brought his own saddle, custom-made and blazoned on both sides with the Ponsonby crest in enamel and gold.

But how to be in the woods during the hunt without arousing suspicion?  That struck me as unlikely and difficult, everybody at Verevale was either in the house or on the hunt... or were they?  That would be my first point of investigation, was there anyone unaccounted for between, say, ten in the morning, giving him an hour or two to get to the wood before the hunt drew that covert, and three-thirty, when we returned to the house?

A clever murderer wouldn't be so obvious, though, so I didn't hold out much hope for that avenue of investigation.  But I had to think about something, for every time my mind paused it would fill up with Jingo's face, his mouth slightly open and his dead blue eyes wide in surprise and pain and even a little bit of pleading, as if to say No! Not me, not yet!  If I didn't keep busy, the police would arrive to find me keening and wailing over the body like a Greek widow.

I was alone in that wood with a corpse and two horses for what seemed like the entirety of the longest night in the history of the world, but it was really only about an hour and a half later that I heard voices and saw a half-dozen strong lights bobbing toward me from the direction of the river.

"Viscount Foxbridge?" a man asked me in a gentle, cultured voice while flashing a torch painfully in my eyes.

"Yes," I replied, flinching and bringing up my hand to shield my eyes.

"I'm Detective Chief Inspector Netley," he told me, turning the light upward so I could see his face, which was nice-looking in a faintly elfin way, and pleasantly creased as if it was accustomed to smiling gently, "You are able to identify the deceased for us?"

"The Marquess of Faringdon," I told him as he walked over to Jingo's body and pointed his torch at the face, which one of the constables had uncovered, "James Ponsonby, everyone called him Jingo.  We were at school together, and we're both staying with the Levondales."

"And how do you come to be out here, Lord Foxbridge?"

"Dotty, Lady Faringdon that is, asked me to look for him," I explained, "He hadn't come back from the hunt and she was getting worried."

"And why did Lady Faringdon ask this of you, rather than alerting her host, I wonder?" he walked back over and faced me, though he didn't shine the light in my eyes again.

"I have a talent for finding things," I offered lamely.

"And finding people?" he wondered, and even in the dark I could see his eyebrows lifted inquiringly.

"Occasionally," I said.

"I am extremely disturbed by what I find here, Lord Foxbridge," he pointed his torch at the ground between our feet and nudged the dead leaves with his toe, "You found another body with a knife in its chest, just two months ago?  Lord and Lady Faringdon were staying in the same house that time, too.  You don't find that remarkable?"

"Are you accusing me of killing Jingo?" I gawked at him.

"Oh, no, Lord Foxbridge, nothing like that," he smiled as gently as I'd thought he would, "But you must understand that one doesn't usually find quite so many stabbed bodies discovered by one young man, nor quite so many of the same names in such similar cases only two months apart, without there being a fairly staggering connection."

"Quite," I agreed, but had no idea what else to say.  There certainly were connections between the cases, though I couldn't tell Netley about any of them before I knew I could trust him.

"Quite," he echoed me, the gentle smile falling down into an ironic smirk, "Why don't you tell me about your movements and your observations from the time you left the house up to the time my men and I arrived?"

I did so, sparing no details and even giving him the benefit of my theories, though of course I left out all of the emotional stuff and any hint of why I insisted on coming out alone with the stablemaster instead of instituting a proper search in the first place.  He didn't write any of it down, nor ask anyone else to take notes, he just looked at me with his bright eyes and gentle smile until I ran out of words.

"Very lucid," he commented crisply after taking a moment to absorb it all, "I'll ask you to make an official statement to that effect later on.  For now, though, I think you should return to the house.  One of my men will accompany you."

"Thank you," I deflated a bit, not because he was dismissing me but because it had been an incredibly long day, and after that last bit of exposition I felt like a squeezed-out orange.  In other circumstances I might have tried to stick around to watch the police at their work, but it was cold and dark and I hadn't had my dinner.

I followed a uniformed constable out of the clearing and along the river-bank to the bridge, where a tractor-truck that had been commandeered from the home farm was waiting to haul the policemen back and forth; not a very elegant form of transport, but I was in no mood to care, it was faster than walking or riding and all I wanted was something hot to eat, something even hotter (and preferably alcoholic) to drink, and a fire sufficient to toast my feet.
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2,175 Words
34,165 Total Words

NaNoWriMo 2014 - Day 23

Tea was served in the great saloon instead of the library, to accommodate the numbers, and was a much noisier version of the meal than I like at that time of the day; after getting some tea and hot scrambled eggs into me, I bowed out and headed for my room, deeply desirous of a hot bath and perhaps a little nap before getting dressed for the evening.

But it was not to be, at least not for a bit: I found Michael in my room waiting for me to come back, and he looked so fresh and innocent asleep on top of the covers, half-unwrapped from his dressing-gown, that I pounced on him like a Regency buck on a hapless milkmaid, pulling him onto the floor and ravishing him in front of the fireplace with my boots on.

"Wow," he gasped out when I let him up for air, "That was worth waiting around for."

"How long have you been up here?" I panted, tired but exhilarated.

"Oh, ages and ages," he said dreamily, "My stupid girth broke, I fell off my horse before we reached the third covert, and had to come back."

"That's too bad, you missed a fantastic chase."

"Don't tell me that," he punched me lightly in the ribs, "Let me pretend you've all been traipsing disconsolately around the park without finding, then I won't mind missing it quite so much."

"I really need a bath, now," I pulled away from him and sniffed at my arm.

"Wait, not yet, you smell wonderful," he hugged me close and breathed deeply.

"I smell like a combination stables and molly-house."

"Exactly," he agreed.

"You're a very odd boy," I shook my head and suffered myself to be sniffed a little while longer, until Pond knocked on the door to tell me that my bathwater was going to get cold if I didn't hurry.  If I'd been allotted a big bathroom like Rupert's, I would have taken him with me (Michael, I mean, not Pond), but instead I sent him off on his way while I got into the blissful tub and had a really good soak and scrub.

"What's all this?" I asked Pond when I came out of the bath and found him in the bedroom, tidying over four sets of evening-clothes that he'd laid out on the bed side-by-side.

"I volunteered your lordship's bedroom and bath, and my own services, for some of the young men who are staying to change for the ball."

"That's very white of you," I raised an appreciative brow.

"All of the valets and ladies' maids have volunteered to assist the hunt guests this evening," he replied, "I could not in good conscience refuse to take part on your lordship's behalf."

"Naturally.  Which of these is mine?"

"Your lordship's clothes are laid out in the dressing-room," he turned and gave me one of his microscopically offended looks, as if I'd accused him of treating me less regally than the hoi polloi, "Along with Lord Rupert's clothes.  His lordship's rooms have been given over to the use of four young ladies for this evening."

"You locked the connecting door, I trust," I glanced over to the doorway when I got to the dressing-room, strangely disturbed by the idea of a gaggle of girls so nearby while I was dressing.

"And blocked the hole, with the key on our side, my lord," he smiled at me.

"Well, let's fall to, shall we, before the rush?"  I would have preferred to have a nap first, I was uncomfortably sleepy after so much exercise, but I didn't want to be loafing around waiting to be dressed with a bunch of other blokes--I'd much rather be dressed already so I could watch them change. 

Rupert turned up and had a quick splash in the bathroom while I was being dressed, then came and lounged distractingly on the daybed waiting his turn; the other young men arrived in due course, and Rupert showed them where things were so Pond could keep working.  And when I was done, I sat and watched Rupert being dressed, which was extremely entertaining.

I was just about to go into the bedroom and get chummy with my temporary guests, but there was a knock on the door--the outer door to the corridor, not the dressing-room door into the little passage that connected my three rooms--and I answered it to discover Dotty standing outside looking distressed.

"Oh, Foxy, I don't know what to do," she pulled me out into the corridor, hissing like a steam-kettle in an attempt to whisper.  She was dressed already, and perfectly stunning in gold satin the same colour as her hair with an awful lot of diamonds studded about her person, "Jingo hasn't come in yet, and I'm worried."

"I'm sure he's just still at tea," I said soothingly, wondering why she'd come to me.

"No, I sent Massingale down to fetch him, and he's not in the house," she wrenched at the large chiffon handkerchief she'd been wringing in her hands, "I don't think he came in from the hunt."

"Oh, he must have done," I frowned, "Lord Levondale or the Master would have noticed if he hadn't come back with us."

"That's why I'm worried," she said, her voice cracking a little, "He can't have simply disappeared in between the stables and the house, something must be wrong."

"Well, really, Dotty," I felt a little exasperated, "You know what Jingo's like.  He's probably somewhere around the stables with someone."

"I thought of that, you idiot," she punched my arm, "Otherwise I would have started worrying an hour and a half ago."

"Well, what do you want me to do?" I rubbed my arm gingerly; the handkerchief twisted around her fist hadn't softened the blow at all.

"I know I've got an awful rind, asking you for help after everything we've done," she said, her tone changing to one of pleading, which infected me with more of her fear than her hissing and hand-wringing had done, "But I honestly can't think of anyone more capable of finding him than you."

"Well, alright," I replied, mollified, "I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you, Foxy," she threw her arms around me and kissed me on the cheek, wiped her lip-rouge off me with the wrecked handkerchief, and scurried back down the corridor to her own room.  And though the corridor was quite long and her door at the opposite end from mine, I heard very distinctly the key turning in the lock when she got there.

I stood there in the corridor for a bit, trying to think what to do.  I couldn't pull Pond away from his labours, but I also couldn't go to the servants or to Lord Levondale and start searching for Jingo--after all, it would be very awkward for everyone involved if I raised the hue and cry, then found him romping about in the stables or a folly somewhere.  But if he was trapped or hurt somewhere at a distance from the house, I couldn't hope to find him on my own.

The stables seemed like the place to start, and I figured that if I didn't find him there, I'd at least find out if his horse had been returned with the rest of them or if he'd come back early like Michael and any others who'd been unhorsed along the way; and then, only if it turned out he hadn't come back yet, I'd worry about who I could trust to take me looking for him.

The stable-yard was brightly lit and festive: though some of the horses were still being tended, most had already been stabled or put back in their horse-boxes; the grooms were starting their own little party in the coach-house, with a long trestle-table laden with food and drink and a Victrola playing some snazzy tunes that some of the boys were singing along with.  I asked after the Verevale stablemaster and was directed to the tack room in the corner of the stable block.

Daughtry, a great strapping sunburned chap who I knew Pond had a bit of a crush on, informed me that Lord Faringdon's horse hadn't returned early, but he hadn't checked to see if it had arrived when the rest of the hunt did--with seventy horses coming in at once, one horse more or less wouldn't be noticed, and they wouldn't inventory the tack until all the animals were settled.  But he took me down the rows and we discovered that Sirocco, the big black Arabian that had been assigned to Jingo, was not in his stall.

"I'll get some lads together and we'll start a search, my lord," he said when we'd ascertained that Sirocco wasn't still in the yard and hadn't been put in the wrong stall.

"Oh, don't do that, I'd hate to interrupt their party," I objected lamely, unable to think of a really good reason to keep the grooms out of it, but still not wanting more people aware of Jingo's absence than could be avoided, "If you can help me saddle a horse, and find me a torch, I'll go out myself."

"Certainly, but please allow me to accompany you, my lord," he frowned thoughtfully, appearing to get my real meaning and willing to play along with my ridiculous request, "If Lord Faringdon is injured, you'll need someone to help you give first aid and carry him back."

"Oh, of course, thank you," I was immensely relieved to not have to explain myself further.  

With very little help from me, Daughtry had a pair of sturdy-looking chestnuts saddled, got me into a spare pair of boots and an old coachman's cloak (it was a bit cold to be larking about in white tie), and filled two large carriage lanterns to light our way; we mounted and went out quietly onto the drive.

We rode on the lawn instead of the drive, since motorcars were coming up for the ball and the headlamps annoyed the horses, then turned at the unpaved path and followed the course of the hunt toward the first covert.  It was slow going in the dark, and so took a good deal longer than it had in the morning, though not near as long as it would have taken on foot.

"I remember seeing Jingo...Lord Faringdon, I mean, after we left the first covert, so I don't think he's in there," I said as we trotted along outside the trees, poking our lights through the branches and seeing nothing but more dark trees.

"If his lordship dropped out of the field further on, he still may have come this way returning to the stable, my lord," Daughtry pointed out intelligently, "If your lordship will follow the tracks of the hunt along the outside, I'll go up the stream path and search there, and meet you at the other end of the covert."

We went even slower as we examined the covert, and it felt rather eerie being out on horseback at night by myself, even though I could see Daughtry's lantern flashing occasional inside the copse.  I got to the end of the covert before he did, and started getting rather lonely before the stablemaster finally emerged.

A high gibbous moon broke through the clouds, and shed a good deal more light as we trotted along the open ground, so we reached the the second covert a bit more quickly.  But it was even more dense than the first covert, and our lanterns didn't penetrate at all.  We slowed practically to a crawl, and Daughtry made little forays into the wood when it loosened enough to allow a horse to enter.

"Here's a stirrup on the ground," he said, pulling up and dismounting about halfway along the edge of the wood, not yet in sight of the bridge we'd gone over twice during the hunt and again on the way back.

"Did you hear that?" I asked when a snickery kind of noise caught my ear, barely audible among the usual night noises.

"There's a horse in the wood," Daughtry replied after listening carefully for a moment, dropping the stirrup back where he'd found it, then remounted and led the way in between the trees in the direction of the sound. 

We rode in silence for a bit, penetrating deeper by a rather circuitous route, not really a path so much as a trail of broken underbrush, where it looked like a large animal had gone plunging through it, taking no particular direction, perhaps a boar crashing through trying to escape hunters coming from different sides--but there wasn't a forest for miles around that was big enough to contain a boar.  Leaning down from my mount, I examined the ground in the beam of the lantern, and saw that it was mostly clear of leaves and free of any tracks besides those of Daughtry's horse, as if it had been carefully swept. 

After a few minutes of this maze-like ramble, we came out onto a fairly large clearing, with the river two hundred yards away lightly screened by a loose line of willows on its bank, and more dense woods beyond it.  A big black horse was tethered to one of the willows, its saddle sitting beside it and its blanket gone, complaining gently and snuffing around for more of the grass it had already cleared from around the length of its reins.

"That's Sirocco," Daughtry rode over to the horse and dismounted again, soothing the beast and checking him by lantern-light for injuries.

"What's he doing so far into this wood?" I wondered, playing my lantern's beam around the clearing, looking for clues.  

"The reins are hitched to the branch, not just caught," the stableman replied, "Lord Faringdon must have brought him in here for some reason."

"Is that the horse-blanket?" my beam crossed a reddish tartan something-or-other strewn with leaves at the opposite edge of the clearing from the horse.  I slid down from the saddle and went to investigate.

It was the horse-blanket, but under the horse-blanket was Jingo with a knife sticking out of his chest, quite dead.

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2,372 Words

31,990 Total Words

NaNoWriMo 2014 - Day 22

Too tired and drained to write.  Damned Dickens Fair.

NaNoWriMo 2014 - Day 20

I stopped in the great hall and chatted briefly with a couple of chaps I knew only slightly, one who'd been at Magdalen and the aforementioned Tollemache who'd been at Eton, and they introduced me to various sisters, uncles, and houseguests in their retinues without any of them making any kind of impression on my memory--no fault of their own, of course, but when everyone is wearing essentially the same thing, and talking about the same thing, you have to be fairly spectacular in the way of personality or looks to stand out.

Since there was nothing more interesting to do, I headed to the stable-yard, going around by way of the chapel-wing instead of the front door, partly to avoid the crush in the courtyard where mounted riders were already congregating and partly to stay inside for as long as I could.  The grooms were all busy, so I saddled Samson myself and got mounted, though I asked one of them to double-check my buckles to make sure I did it right.

The stable-yard was rather chaotic, with several horse-boxes being unloaded and another several being pulled in behind battered estate vans, horses being led by grooms and horses being ridden, and dozens of people dashing about trying to fetch and carry without being trampled underfoot.  Through a dark tunnel under one of the curved colonnades, I entered the forecourt where the chaos was a little more genteel but just as noisy as people clattered about aimlessly on the cobbles and chatted to each-other in voices that echoed off the stone walls.
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NaNoWriMo 2014 - Day 19

When I got down to the dining-room, I discovered that guests were already arriving, and there were a number of strange women scattered about with tea and toast.

"Oh, Lord Foxbridge, how smart you look!" Lady Levondale exclaimed, partly to pay a compliment and partly to alert the new people to my identity.  Out of the entire party, she and the Duchess were the only ones who hadn't taken to calling me Foxy, "Breakfast is a little light this morning, since we'll be eating again in an hour or so."

"A jug of coffee, some toasted bread, and thou," I paraphrased facetiously, going into a sweeping bow to kiss her hand, "O, Wilderness were Paradise enow!"

"Frivolous boy," Lady Levondale giggled delightedly, then started introducing me around, "Have you met Mrs. Feversham? She's our nearest neighbour."

Mrs. Feversham was a stout bird of fifty summers dressed in tweeds so broken-in they didn't appear to be sewn and buttoned together so much as to have grown on her like moss.  Seven other ladies of similar variety and vintage were introduced as well, all near neighbours (or as near as one can get to an estate the size of Verevale), and only one was wearing a riding habit.

"Are you not hunting this morning, Lady Levondale?" I asked, parking myself halfway down the board with my coffee, toast, and a dollop of kedgeree.

"Oh, no, I haven't hunted in years," my hostess replied, crossing her legs uncomfortably, "Not since Michael was born.  So we have a little card party for those who don't hunt, amusing ourselves as best we can while the others are off on the chase."

"That sounds like fun," I lied.  Playing cards with tweedy lumps like Ma Feversham all day sounded dreary in the extreme.

More people were wandering into the house, though most seemed content to mill around in the great hall instead of coming into the dining-room; I felt an odd pressure to bolt down my kedgeree and go, especially after Lady Levondale left the room; her place was taken by the lumpiest of the tweed lumps, a Mrs. Tollemache of Summerease House whose son was at Eton with me, though I didn't remember him beyond the name--Tollemache can be pronounced so many different ways that it sort of sticks in your head when you find out how any particular Tollemache says his own name (the Tollemaches of Summerease House pronounce themselves 'tool-make,' in case you were wondering).  I ate so fast trying to get away from her that I nearly gave myself indigestion.

"Oh, you're not hunting, Dotty?" I ran into the marchioness in the doorway, surprised to see her dressed in a skirt and cardigan with some quite handsome pearls.

"My visitor arrived early," she said mysteriously, "Makes the horses jumpy."

"Visitor?" I wondered.

"I forget sometimes how grotesquely innocent you are in the ways of women," she smiled and patted my cheek, "You'll find out when you get married."

"Oh, one of those," I nodded sagely, "I do know enough about women's things to know I'm better off not knowing at all."

"Ah, to be a fly on the wall behind your and Caro's marriage bed," she slid away from me toward the tea-pots, "It'll be like Adam and Eve on their first date, won't it?"

"Probably," I agreed, laughing.
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557 Words
27,765 Total Words

NaNoWriMo 2014 - Day 18

Just can't today.