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Excerpt from The Dead Man's View , A Second Sons Inquiry Agency Mystery
Available formats: e-book and trade paperback When Eric Knibbs invites his second cousin, Prudence
Barnard, to a house party, she’s pleased to discover that she has a family,
even if it is a distant one. Since her father’s death, Pru has struggled to
maintain her existence without the affection and support of relatives.
Unfortunately, their reunion is cut short when Eric is found dead, hanging
from a noose outside his bedroom window. The coroner and his jury believe Eric hung himself, but
Eric was afraid of heights and could never have committed suicide in such a
manner. He won’t even allow the drapes to be opened in his bedroom, so how
could he have jumped out of the window with a noose around his neck? After a
quick examination of his room, Pru finds too many anomalies and can’t help
questioning the positioning of the body outside his window, facing the hedge
maze in his garden. Pru doesn’t have any answers, but she knows her cousin
was well-liked and generous, so she seeks help from her old friend, Knighton
Gaunt of the Second Sons Inquiry Agency. Pru soon learns the maze had a dark
past and neither Pru nor Knighton are prepared for the strange paths they
must follow to discover what deadly truth lays hidden in the shadows at
Kennington Manor. Was the dead man’s view of the maze at the heart of the mystery or simply the killer’s ruse to suggest suicide?
The Dead Man’s View
A Second Sons Mystery
Featuring Prudence Barnard and Knighton Gaunt
By
Amy Corwin Chapter One
“One to destroy is murder by the
law.…” –Edward Young (1683-1765)
Friday, March 12, 1819, morning
“It is not possible and I refuse to accept such a notion.” Mrs. Pruett
daubed her swollen eyes with a handkerchief. “My brother would never do such
a thing, he would never do away with himself.
Never!”
A bare hour ago, Mrs. Pruett’s brother, Eric Knibbs, had been found hanging
from a rope. The valet had discovered him that morning and the initial
conclusion of most of the inhabitants at Kennington Manor was that the
master of the manor had committed suicide by knotting a rope around his neck
and jumping out of his bedroom window.
“It does seem strange,” Prudence Barnard replied, trying to rationally
consider Mrs. Pruett’s statement. Hanging did seem to be an odd and overly
dramatic way for a hitherto quiet and very proper gentleman to do away with
himself, but she did not know her second cousin well and hardly knew what to
think. “However, a suicide’s mind cannot be considered sound, and we don’t
know what drove him to take such an action.”
“He was always so happy and even-tempered, the soul of amiability. There
should have been some sign if he were disposed to kill himself.” A sob broke
from Mrs. Pruett’s throat and she pressed her handkerchief against her mouth
to smother the sound as she swallowed repeatedly, trying to regain control.
Pru looped an arm around Mrs. Pruett’s shoulders and gave her a brief hug.
“I am sure he had his reasons—”
“No. You must realize, must know he would never do such a dreadful thing.
You do sense something, something wicked, don’t you?” Mrs. Pruett caught
Pru’s hand in a clinging, desperate grasp, her reddened eyes searching her
face. “Has—has his spirit spoken to you?”
“No.” Pru shook her head and gently released Mrs. Pruett’s cold hand. “No,
he has not spoken to me, and I don’t sense any evil purpose behind this
terrible event. Please don’t distress yourself in this way, it can serve no
purpose. Rest assured, the coroner’s court will decide the matter fairly.”
“How can they? No one knew his character better than I and he did not do
this thing, I tell you. Please, you must try to speak to my brother’s
spirit. He would not have destroyed himself—he would not.”
Pru sighed. This was what came from agreeing to hold spirit sessions. The
sessions were only meant to entertain and provide peace to those left
behind, not solve all the mysteries of life and death. Even the ancient
philosophers knew there were no answers, only more questions.
“I am so sorry, Mrs. Pruett,” Pru said. “It is truly a tragedy—”
Mrs. Pruett stood, her gray eyes wild. “You
knew my brother—he was afraid of heights. He could barely look out a
window above the ground floor and always kept the draperies closed to avoid
the view from the upper floors. He could not have jumped, and if he did not
jump, then he was murdered.”
“Mrs. Pruett, please.” Pru caught the lady’s thin wrist. “The coroner will
be here soon. He will discover the truth—”
“No—he will not. Why should he?” She stared into Pru’s face. “You must go to
my brother’s room while his spirit remains. Now!”
“Mrs. Pruett, I understand your concern, but—”
“Please, you must. He was your cousin.”
“Second cousin,” Pru corrected her mechanically. She wished she were more
sure that she was correct in assuming the coroner and his jury would find
the truth, but after her own brush with the officers of the law on a
previous occasion, she had difficulty convincing herself that the coroner
would indeed discover the truth and Mrs. Pruett’s logic did seem to have
some merit.
Mrs. Pruett, noting Pru’s doubt said, “Do you want him buried at the
crossroads, in unhallowed ground?”
“Of course not.” She hesitated and then offered a possible solution they
could pursue if the coroner should indeed come to the conclusion that Eric
Knibbs had hung himself despite his fear of heights. “We would never allow
that to happen, I assure you. If necessary, perhaps we could convince them
to permit us to bury him in the small plot next to the stables. Wasn’t
great-great Uncle Lucius buried there?” She knew as soon as she’d said it
that she had violated the family’s rule of secrecy and had been unforgivably
rude. No one spoke about Lucius Barnard, ever. It simply wasn’t done.
Mrs. Pruett appeared too distracted to notice the solecism, however. She
pulled Pru toward the staircase. “Please, please at least go to his room.
See if he will speak to you and tell you the truth.
Please.”
“Very well.” Resigned, Pru gathered her skirts and mounted the staircase. At
least she could tell Mrs. Pruett that Mr. Knibbs had found peace, wherever
he was. If a suicide can find peace.…
Then perhaps Mrs. Pruett would begin to find some consolation at this
terrible and tragic time.
Breathing harshly as tears coursed unheeded over her cheeks, Mrs. Pruett
followed closely, twice stepping on Pru’s heels. When they reached the
landing, Mrs. Pruett hurried ahead, halting in front of the footman who
lounged on a chair next to the closed door of the master bedroom.
“Mrs. Pruett.” The footman leapt to his feet.
“Open the door, James,” she ordered, back stiff and chin tilted up.
“But, Madame—”
“Are you refusing, James?”
“No—but I was told—”
Pru placed a hand on Mrs. Pruett’s forearm. “Perhaps—”
“I don’t care what you were told, James, open that door.
Immediately.” Mrs. Pruett shook
off Pru’s hand.
“I dare not, Madame. I am sorry, but I was told to let no one enter until
the coroner arrives.”
“You will let us in this instant, if you please, and no more nonsense.”
Pru stepped between them and placed a restraining hand upon Mrs. Pruett’s
arm. “We will not touch anything, James, and you can watch us from the
doorway. You will be able to confirm that you observed us the entire time
should anyone should ask. I am sure no one will object or blame you under
the circumstances.”
Shifting weight from one foot to the other, he glanced from Pru to Mrs.
Pruett’s mottled face before finally pulling a large brass key out of his
jacket pocket. With obvious reluctance, he unlocked the door. However,
before he could step aside, Mrs. Pruett shouldered him away, grasped the
doorknob, and threw open the door.
Pru caught her wrist. “Please, will you wait here?”
The room had been locked to ensure nothing was touched before the coroner
and his jury could arrive to view the scene. In Mrs. Pruett’s distraught
state, she couldn’t be trusted not to accidentally move or change some
aspect that would later prove critical.
“The atmosphere is … overpowering,” Mrs. Pruett whispered, twisting her
hands together. “I will not disturb you—I cannot step foot in there, not
while my brother lies inside.…” She shivered and rubbed her upper arms.
“There is evil here, do you sense it as well?”
“Please.” Pru held up one hand. Mrs. Pruett was obviously too fond of gothic
novels such as Mrs. Radcliffe’s Mysteries of Udolpho. Kennington Manor was not some remote,
picturesquely decaying castle thronging with strange, evil-minded occupants.
The house was well-built and comfortable with nary a ghost or dark,
cobwebbed corner to be found.
Nonetheless no matter how prosaic her surroundings, Pru could not dismiss
everything Mrs. Pruett said. The woman knew her brother’s strengths and
weaknesses, and if she had doubts concerning his death, those doubts should
be taken into consideration.
Pru studied the room, searching for anything odd, any anomaly that might
provide insight into her cousin’s mood and final thoughts.
The heavy bedclothes were in disarray, suggesting he had hastily arisen and
dressed himself. Without a valet?
That in itself was odd. In fact, he had not rung for his valet and the
servant had been the one who had discovered the body when he came to his
master’s room at eight o’clock that morning, his usual time.
A crumpled nightcap lay wedged between two pillows on the bed, but there was
no sign of a nightshirt. It seemed strange as well. She walked across the
room and carefully leaned through the open window to glance down at the
body, still hanging from a taut rope. Although Mr. Knibbs had pulled on long
trousers and buttoned a waistcoat over his linen shirt, the rumpled state of
the shirt seemed to indicate he was still wearing the one he’d worn to bed.
Well, some men wore their linen shirt as a nightshirt, although usually only
when they traveled. Most men didn’t do so when they were home and had a
wardrobe full of clean, freshly ironed shirts to wear.
Brushing a wayward curl from her forehead, she sternly reminded herself that
a suicide could hardly be considered rational, so any peculiar actions might
simply be an indication of his diseased mind. Nonetheless, she felt a
feather-light touch of cold as if evil truly did swirl through the room like
an errant draft, precisely as Mrs. Pruett claimed. She rubbed her arms just
as Mrs. Pruett had earlier and stared at the golden light streaming into the
room through the uncovered windows. Hadn’t Mrs. Pruett indicated her brother
always kept the draperies drawn to avoid the view of the wide, green lawn
and trees below his windows?
He didn’t like heights.
Uneasy, she turned away and out of the corner of her eyes, she noticed a
pillow on the floor next to the bed. Bending closer, she saw the clear
imprint of a man’s shoe, crushed into the center of the white pillowcase.
She glanced out the window again, craning her neck to catch a glimpse of Mr.
Knibbs’ feet.
His feet were bare of both stockings and shoes.
“What is it?” Mrs. Pruett called from the doorway. “Is he speaking to you?”
In a sense. There were signs that
could speak to her if she were intelligent enough to read them. She
walked back to stand a few feet away from the pillow. When had a shod foot
stepped on that pillow? Whose shod foot?
His valet, the estimable Wickson? But why would he walk on the pillow?
Wouldn’t he have picked it up and put it back on the bed? She knelt down and
examined the marks more closely. A few strands of hair curled over the
pillowcase. Expected certainly, but there was also the footprint and a faint
gray area in the center of that print. Initially, she assumed it was dust or
dirt from the sole of the shoe, but as she studied it, her doubts grew.
It looked faintly damp and the fabric looked oddly twisted or worn, almost
chewed. Mr. Knibbs might have drooled in his sleep, although something about
the moist area cast that thought into doubt. Of course, she could be making
more of it than it deserved. The mark might be quite normal and attributed
to nervous behavior caused by whatever worry had driven her cousin to take
his life.
Or it might be an important clue to the events leading to his death.
She hesitated and glanced over her shoulder at the door. James eyed her, his
expression tight with anxiety. She stood and sighed as she dusted off her
dress. She dare not touch the pillow. Surely, someone else would notice the
same things she had and both the footprint and the moist spot would be
investigated properly.
Slowly, she stood and made a circuit of the room. There was nothing else out
of place or disturbed that she could see, just the twisted covers of the bed
and the pillow on the floor.
When she reached the writing desk, she paused, thinking that Mr. Knibbs
would surely have written a note here to explain his actions. However, the
inkwell was clean and dry. She leaned closer to examine the quills resting
in a crystal holder. They were dry, as well. In fact, of the five quills,
three had never been used. The other two had been sharpened and then never
used for the sharp, cream-colored edges had never been stained by ink.
So he hadn’t written a note, at least not at this desk or with these quills.
Her sense of something out of balance increased. For some reason, the
fireplace drew her gaze. Something had been burned there recently. The black
remains of a sheet of paper lay atop the charred wood stacked on the grate.
“Please, Miss, someone’s a-coming. You should not be in here.” James glanced
over his shoulder and wiped the side of his forehead with a sleeve. Sharp
lines ran from his nose to the edges of his mouth.
In the distance, she could hear the tramp of heavy feet on the wooden
stairs. She got to the door before the first man appeared, Mr. Pruett. Mary
Pruett’s husband caught Pru’s gaze. He looked from her to his wife before
frowning at James.
“You there.” Mr. Pruett called. “I thought we ordered you to keep that door
locked.”
“I am sorry, sir.” James took a step away from the two women, leaving them
alone to face the consequences of their actions.
“It is my fault, Mr. Pruett. I sensed something, a message my cousin needed
to convey before his spirit passed away completely.” She felt like a fool
claiming anything of the sort, but at least it might explain her presence,
and he would expect such a nonsensical reason from her so he would
undoubtedly accept the excuse.
A condescending smile brushed away his angry expression and he raised one
hand, palm up as the men behind him gathered in the hallway. “Of course. No
harm done. I would not have expected you to understand the necessity of
leaving the room as it is. However you should not have gone in there, Miss
Barnard.”
“Yes.” She lowered her gaze dutifully. “I am terribly sorry. I fear I was
not thinking clearly.”
The men shook their heads, but they accepted the excuse and exchanged
knowing, indulgent smiles with each other, dismissing her as just another
superstitious female exactly as she anticipated.
When she turned, James had disappeared, making good his escape before anyone
could remember to berate him. Even Mrs. Pruett had vanished before her
husband noticed her presence, appearing shrewd despite her grief.
The knot of men slowly unraveled to enter Knibbs’ suite, their hands clasped
behind their backs, solemn-faced, and prepared to view the body
in situ. Pru waited in the
doorway, wondering if they would see the pillow and come to the same
conclusion she had. Her second cousin had not killed himself, she was sure
of it.
Her cousin had not worn shoes and therefore had not been the one to step on
the pillow. Someone else had trod on it and that twisted, damp spot put a
very ugly notion into her head.
The men filed around the room, dutifully observing the tangled bedclothes
and peering over the window sill at the body hanging below. Or rather,
dangling against the narrow portion of the wall situated between two of his
bedroom windows. The rope had been looped around the solid wall, winding
from one open window to the other.
He, or someone else, had obviously been concerned about anchoring the rope
to something that would take his weight. There were no exposed beams in his
chamber. None of the furniture was heavy enough to stay in place and not
slide or break against the window when he jumped.
Or was pushed.
Shivering anew, she tried to imagine her cousin throwing the rope from one
window to the other to loop around the narrow, two-foot expanse of wall
between the openings. He’d tied a heavy knot and then made a smaller one to
loop around his neck before jumping out of the window.
How could he have done that if he were truly afraid of heights? She couldn’t
accept the notion now that Mrs. Pruett had pointed it out to her.
As she watched from the doorway, several of the men heaved the body up. The
coroner, Sir Lionel Barnshaw, stood back, gesturing as he gave a series of
convoluted orders that no one appeared to heed. A blond-haired man standing
near the head of the bed roughly pulled the blankets straight and patted it
to show it was ready to accept the body. As the other men prepared to
deposit Knibbs on the bed, the blond man picked up the pillow from the
floor.
“Don’t—” Pru held out a hand, afraid of losing the slim evidence she’d seen
on the pillowcase.
Sir Lionel flashed her a disapproving look. “What are you doing here? This
is no place for a lady.”
“I am sorry, sir, however I was worried.”
“No need. We are doing all that is right and proper under these tragic
circumstances.”
The man holding the pillow shook it out and placed it on the bed, smoothing
it with one hand to prepare it to receive Mr. Knibbs’ head.
She bit the inside of her mouth to keep from berating him. How could they be
so blind? Once more, the memory of another tragedy returned, a time when
she’d have been accused of murder if not for the efforts of an inquiry
agent, Mr. Knighton Gaunt. If he were here, he wouldn’t have ignored the
subtle signs that indicated Mr. Knibbs may not have ended his own life.
Knighton would never have picked up that pillow and shook out the footprint
without even calling anyone’s attention to the strange marks.
“There was no note. I … I am not sure he would do such a thing. That is,
jump from such a height with a rope around his neck.” She gestured to the
window and shook her head.
“Are you suggesting murder?” Sir Lionel’s condescending smile made her
stiffen.
“I am not suggesting anything.”
As she spoke, Sir Lionel leaned over the bed. He smoothed over her cousin’s
jacket and dipped his fingers into the pockets. When he reached the inner
pocket above the left breast, he removed a scrap of paper with a flourish.
He read it quickly, showed it to the men crowding around the bed before
waving it in her direction. “Here is your note, Miss.”
“Miss Barnard.” Even she could see the torn edge of the note. Why would her
cousin tear a small piece from another sheet of paper when he had a sheaf of
fresh paper in his desk? It was absurd. “A paper was burned in the
fireplace, perhaps you should examine it.”
“This is difficult to accept, but this note confirms the obvious.” He
straightened the scrap between his meaty fingers and read, “‘I am sorry. I
wish matters had not come to this, but there is nothing else I could do.
Your most humble servant, Eric Knibbs.’ There, you see? Tragic, but hardly
mysterious.” He looked briefly at the fireplace. “I see nothing here that
merits more examination, Miss Barnard. Perhaps it would be best if you
rested. You have suffered a shock and must not give in to fancies created by
your nerves.”
Despite Sir Lionel’s pleasure with the note, it seemed incomplete to Pru,
confirming her suspicions. Where was the salutation? To whom had it been
addressed? Why was it only a small bit of paper torn from a larger sheet?
“But you will investigate?” she asked, ignoring his suggestion that she
retire.
“We will certainly convene an inquest, though the outcome is sadly obvious.”
He slipped the note into his pocket and shook his head. “Self-murder.”
The men nodded their heads sagely, forming a wall of agreement around him.
They’d made their decision and if she couldn’t prove otherwise, Mr. Knibbs
would be buried at the crossroads without a marker, forever disgraced.
Dare she write to Knighton and ask him to investigate? Even as she watched,
the evidence was slowly being destroyed by the men who were supposed to
evaluate it. They seemed oblivious to what they were doing, satisfied to
conclude her cousin’s death was suicide, despite the signs that this might
not be true. She had to do something, and she thought again of Knighton and
his calm perceptiveness. If he were here now.…
Surely no one could blame her for writing to him and inviting him to visit
her. She would be glad of a friendly face. She did not know anyone at
Kennington very well and she felt isolated here, despite her efforts to be
friends with Mrs. Pruett. For some reason, she simply did not feel
comfortable with her. Hopeful that Knighton would be able to travel to Kennington Manor, Pru returned to her room to write a letter addressed to Mr. Knighton Gaunt at the Second Sons Inquiry Agency in London. Buy Links
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Publication
date: October 2013
