Mystery at Skeffield Manor

  Story copyright December 2014 by Hollis Shiloh. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from the author. All characters and events are fictitious, and any similarity to real people or events is coincidental. Cover design by Wicked Knight Designs. Cover image content is being used for illustrative purposes only. Copy edit by www.bythebookediting.com.

  Old friends, new friends, magic and mystery…

  Join Wes and Kit, Robert and Louie, and their friends and family at Skeffield Manor. Except that there is mischief afoot here…in the beautiful country home and with a mysterious magical object.

  A story told from multiple points of view.

  Takes place after "Wes and Kit" and "Robert and Louie." Other stories set in the same universe: "Like A One-Eyed Cat" and "Gear Heart."

  This story contains some magic, some steampunk elements, and has a low-medium heat rating.

  Length: approx. 62,000 words

  Mystery at Skeffield Manor

  by Hollis Shiloh

  "I think it's wonderful of the Skeffields to invite us to their party," said Kit, carefully undoing the buttons on his shirt. "They certainly didn't need to."

  "I almost wish they'd invited us earlier," replied Wes, eying his partner's chest with appreciation. "It sounds as though we missed a lot of excitement."

  "I am glad of that," said Kit ruefully. He turned, bare-chested and resplendent, to give Wes a smile. He was a slender man with a weak chest (though doing well lately) and warm eyes, intelligent and careful with his hands. He was also kindhearted and clever with machinery, a gentle and considerate man—and most of all, Wes loved him wholeheartedly.

  "Darling." Wes moved forward and caught him, kissing him impulsively. "Of course." How could he have forgotten the ordeal his beloved had gone through? "You don't mind going back to the estate, do you?"

  "Oh, no, as long as security is tight."

  "It is. It will be. Robert's promised."

  Mr. Skeffield's son, Robert Skeffield was an ex-army man, not unlike Wes. They both shared the same medical condition as well, having been mechanicalized during the war several years earlier, brought back to life and kept alive using mechanical and magical means. Though luckier than some, the condition caused fear and hatred among many regular people. Robert had so far managed to hide his condition, with the help of his rich father. Wes hadn't been so lucky and had been in difficult straits before meeting Kit.

  He didn't like to think about the fact that he was basically living off Kit. Paying jobs were still few and far between for men such as himself, and his boyfriend, who was in poor health but diligent, basically kept them (and their rowdy little dog, Lolly) alive by his clock repair work.

  At least Kit was doing marginally better since his last visit to the heart specialist. The adjustment to his medicine had made a slight difference, and he was visibly less wan and exhausted after physical exertion.

  Which was quite nice for their lovemaking—not to mention everyday living.

  Now Kit grinned at him and began to work the rest of Wes's clothing off, kissing his scarred flesh as he revealed it, inch by inch. They didn't speak a lot about the visit after that, but moved by degrees to the bed, and did what they loved best, taking care of one another with a tender sweetness, a need that never grew old.

  #

  Lolly woke Wes, barking up a storm. He listened for a moment, hearing what sounded like a knock on the front door. It was early, and Wes scowled as he crawled out of bed, grabbing at his trousers and glancing back worriedly at his partner. He didn't want Kit to have to wake up before he must. The trip to Skeffield Manor would be a long and arduous one, even if it was mostly by train. He needed his sleep.

  "Shush, girl," called Wes, tripping over one of his shoes. He bit his lip to keep from cursing.

  Lolly wagged her tail at him unrepentantly and proceeded to the door, her ears at high alert.

  Since she and Kit had been held captive and hurt by two criminals trying to find a treasure hidden at Skeffield Manor, she had appointed herself even more firmly their protector. It was clearly her duty, in her little doggy mind, to be as vigilant as possible. She was especially protective of Kit, and seemed to view him as her young.

  The knocking at the door was insistent, but seemed to be growing weaker. The dog and man glanced at each other—as if she could tell him what it was, for pity's sake—and then he hurried to the door and yanked it open, even though he wore only the trousers he'd hurriedly pulled on.

  Bare-chested, scars exposed to the cool night air, he faced a stranger. "Yes? Who is it?" he asked sharply.

  A man leaned there, pale-faced, smeared with blood. He sagged in the doorway, as if the last of his energy was gone for good. "You've got to…reach…"

  He slumped forward, the last words unsaid. He lay very still, halfway fallen across the threshold, his blood smeared like a macabre painting around him.

  Lolly began to bark hysterically. For one awful moment, Wes was frozen. Then he knelt and felt for a pulse. It was weak, but the man lived.

  He lifted him gingerly and pulled him inside.

  "Wes?" asked Kit sleepily from behind him. "What's wrong?"

  Wes spoke as calmly as he could, but his hands and his voice shook. "Someone is trying to die on our doorstep. Call the police and the ambulance. We must stop him."

  It had been a few years since his last battle, and he'd always done well in an emergency, but this reminded him unpleasantly of the war, where one moment everything was normal and people were drinking coffee and complaining about the cold, and the next—everything had gone far, far too wrong.

  Kit made a sound in his throat, a kind of gasp, and hurried to the phone. Lolly crowded round Wes's ankles unhelpfully as he drew the man indoors and tried to staunch his blood flow. That involved finding his wound first, however.

  "Kit! Kit!" he cried in alarm, raising his voice in desperation. "He doesn't have a pulse—he has clockwork!"

  Kit put down the telephone quickly. "So…I can't call for an ambulance?"

  They looked at one another in despair. The hospitals wouldn't treat mechanicalized men. They faced a great deal of discrimination, and that was one part of it. Perhaps the worst.

  Kit put down the telephone and rushed over, checking the man competently. He was bleeding profusely. "His heart doesn't seem to be damaged," he commented. "But all those cuts. How do you suppose he got them?"

  "I don't know. But we can't let him die here," said Wes desperately. He pressed on the worst of the wounds with strong hands, but the man had lost a great deal of blood. "There must be someone who can help."

  Kit bit his lip, then nodded. "There… there's a man in town. I overheard someone talking recently, and… they gave me his name. I wrote down his address so we could contact him someday, when it seemed appropriate. He helps mechanicalized men. I'm sorry I forgot to tell you. It kept slipping my mind, I suppose."

  "Well, for pity's sake, let's go to him. I'm not sure we can keep this man alive ourselves."

  Kit was skilled with clockwork, and Wes had a soldier's knowledge of battlefield medicine. But the man was dying, and they needed expert help—someone to transfuse blood, someone to work magic to give the man extra healing strength: something more than good intentions and common knowledge.

  Kit sprang to his coat hanging by the door and dug into the pocket. "Right. Here. I had it in my jacket. We'll take him right there. If they can't help us—"

  He let the words die off. There was no point conjuring that picture before they needed to face it.

  "Bundle him up the best you can," said Kit, willingly sacrificing his coat. "It's cold out and no taxi will take us if they guess. And cover your chest." He glanced at Wes
quickly, wistfully, as if wishing he had time to appreciate his physique. Then he belted his dressing gown tighter and dashed out into the night to flag down a taxi cab.

  In a flurry, Wes threw on some extra clothing, wrapped the man in a coat as best he could, and hurried out to join Kit, who was shivering on the sidewalk, having finally gotten a cab to stop. The man was limp in his arms, but still heavy. He bundled him in and thrust a long coat into Kit's hands.

  "You didn't use mine," said Kit, glancing at him.

  "No dogs," said the driver, putting his foot down as he eyed his passengers with increasing alarm.

  "Lolly, no," said Wes sharply, nudging her back from trying to spring up to join them in the steam car.

  "She'll be very good. I'll hold her," promised Kit.

  "No dogs!" The man started the taxi moving. The steam engine sounded loud in the quiet night street.

  "Lolly, stay," ordered Wes. As usual, she paid no attention to them and began to run along behind, panting. Wes and Kit cast one another despairing looks. Then they turned their attention to keeping their fellow passenger alive.

  The cabbie drove at a fast speed, whether impressed by their urgency or just trying to outrun the dog, Wes didn't know or particularly care. They didn't outrun Lolly. Fortunately the streets were fairly bare at this time of night—almost four in the morning, too early yet for anyone but a couple of night workers and disreputable-looking folks out and about. A few men loitered, their caps pulled low. A woman or two hung at the edges of streets in loud clothing, chests half-bared, watching with interest as the cab roared by, a dog following it, barking.

  At last they arrived at the residence. Wes felt cold seep all through him, to his bones. He had learned often enough just how much sympathy and help a mechanicalized man could hope for from society. He dreaded asking for help, even if it wasn't for himself this time. He just wanted to shrivel up and die, it pained him so. To ask and ask and always be denied was past bearing. It was easier to stop asking, to just suffer. But this man would die without help.

  "We're here," said the driver grouchily, eying the dog in his rear-view mirror.

  "Wait for us," said Kit.

  "You bet your ass I'll wait. You haven't paid me!" He honked his horn for good measure as they trundled out of the cab, knocking their knees and skinning their elbows and stubbing their toes in their care not to jostle the dying man they carried between them.

  A few months ago, Kit wouldn't have been strong enough to help, but now he carried nearly half the man's weight, biting his lip but not complaining or growing pale in the face. Except, of course, from anxiety. He had a small smear of blood on his cheek, Wes noticed. Really, it was good the cabbie had been so distracted by Lolly or he might have gotten suspicious and kicked them out. They didn't have many other transportation options at this time of night.

  Kit left Wes to hold up the man's weight, leaning against him heavily, and rushed up to the door and knocked hard and long. Lolly joined him in a flash, adding her staccato bark to the mix. Kit leaned on the doorbell, then knocked, repeating the process till footsteps neared the door.

  Someone flicked on a light. They had electric, Wes noticed dully. A roaring pounded in his ears, and he felt the thump of his own metal heart in his anxiety and fear. He wanted to curl up, to escape, to get away. But the man was dying, and he had nowhere else to take him. Who would help them? Would this house, this imposing stone building, turn them away? It wouldn't surprise him. Few things did anymore, when it came to the coldhearted nature of mankind.

  A huge, imposing man opened the door, and Kit almost fell inside from leaning on it so hard. He straightened himself with effort, gasping in a quick breath, sounding scared.

  "Please, can you help us? He's mechanicalized. He came to our doorstep, and he's dying. Losing blood fast. Please," said Kit in a rush. "We can pay!"

  "Come in." The door creaked as the gigantic man held the door open. The dog rushed in first and Kit moved back to help Wes with the stranger.

  The light lit the huge man from behind, so they couldn't see his face. It was half blinding, so bright and electric. But as they passed him, Wes's scattered wits caught the gleam of light on the metal of his arm.

  One of his arms was mechanicalized, completely replaced by machinery. He gasped in a quick breath and bit his lip.

  The huge man shut the door behind them with a thump and moved to help the bleeding man.

  Others rushed forward now, a woman, tsking, and someone who looked reassuringly medical in his spectacles, wearing a concerned look. A little girl hovered around, and then hurried off at a word from the bespectacled man. "Get my bag," he told her.

  "Yes, doc!" she said, dashing off. "So much blood!" she said, sounding thrilled by the excitement, in the gruesome way of childhood.

  In short order, they had the man's clothing largely removed, and the worst of his wounds were being staunched by competent hands. Wes and Kit were edged away by the people who seemed to know what they were doing. The big man looked at them. He had a hard face, scarred and with an angry, impassive look to it. He grunted, then pointed towards the kitchen. "You can have coffee," he said.

  "Thank you," said Kit, sounding a little scared and winded now that their part was done.

  He finally had time for it to really hit him, Wes figured. He put an arm around his partner, sheltering him, and Kit leaned against him gratefully. They didn't attempt to tackle the stove, just sat there, Kit shivering a little and Wes holding him. They sat on kitchen chairs and waited, while not far away, people wrestled to save the life of a stranger.

  #

  "Hello?" A small man with gray hair, pale eyes, and a kind smile joined them in the kitchen. He wore a dressing gown and his hair was a mess. He walked slightly stooped, as if it hurt, and his feet shuffled a little. "You brought the man here?" he asked.

  Wes nodded. He rubbed Kit's back a little more. The kitchen chairs were hard and cold, and Kit had seen and done too much tonight. He wasn't a soldier, and even on the newer medication, he was not healthy and hale.

  Wes had left for a moment to go and pay the taxi driver, and to get the dog to settle down and stop bothering people. When he returned Kit had his hands pressed against his eyes and was shivering harder, his shoulders shaking. He wasn't crying, but he was extremely distressed and unhappy.

  Wes had pulled him onto his lap at that point, and spent the next several minutes just holding him close and comforting him. He wasn't shivering as hard now, with both coats wrapped around him and Wes cuddling him, but he still wasn't up for conversation. He hid his face in Wes's shoulder and let Wes handle it.

  "That's correct," said Wes. "They said we could wait here."

  "Of course, of course. I'm sorry you've been left alone," said the old man genially. "He's in a bad way. I'll make you something to eat, and some coffee. Would that be all right?"

  "Thank you," said Wes, a little startled. He'd expected to be interrogated, not waited on.

  Kit raised his head a little. "Is he…is he going to live?" he asked faintly.

  "We think so," said the old man gently. "We're very fortunate that Dr. Kingsley is here today. And you got that fellow here just in time. Do you know the injured man's name, by the way?"

  "No," said Wes. "He showed up on our doorstep."

  And then, as the man went about the room calmly, scrambling and frying some eggs (with mushrooms) and making them thick slices of toast, they ended up telling him everything, in spits and spurts. He was such a calm, gentle man, listening sympathetically and intelligently. Somehow or other, Lolly even behaved for him, sitting up attentively and begging silently, without tripping him as he moved about the kitchen.

  It was warmed now with the stove running, and Kit had stopped shivering, and somehow or other they had told him their whole life story, between the two of them.

  "Skeffield, you say," said the man, after they had talked about Mr. Skeffield and working for him, and the danger they'd suffered through. "I feel that I
ought to know that name."

  "He runs a big company. Or rather, his daughter mostly runs it now," said Wes, wondering as he did how they'd managed to tell the man that, too. Somehow he just seemed to inspire utter confidence with his calm and gentle way. There was something commanding about him, but unassuming at the same time. Wes thought he might be ex-military, although he didn't think most people would guess right away.

  Soon they were eating, all three of them (four, counting Lolly, who got her own dish), and continuing to talk, but calmly now, on other topics.

  The older man had introduced himself as Anthony Graeham. He had served in the military during the war, but was vague about what he'd done, and what rank he'd attained. Wes suspected something in espionage or counterintelligence.

  For all that, Graeham seemed so gentle, not a hard, gimlet-eyed man. A few people popped in and out of the kitchen again as they ate, and those brief glimpses showed that many of those living there had a variety of things about them that would've made them stand out and not be welcomed elsewhere.

  Aside from the little girl—who was bowlegged and undersized with an atrocious accent and a grubby-fingered habit of grabbing food without knife or fork and running off to eat it, giggling worse than an ill-mannered crow—there was the huge man with the mechanicalized arm, a set of conjoined twins, and a scarred little man with a big smile and dark, clever eyes.

  "See ya, Boss!" he called, raising a hand and waving on his way out the door, after snatching a piece of the toast as he walked past the table. He was diminutive and bowlegged and had a cocky walk. He wore plain workman's clothing and looked like he could slip into the background of any crowd.

  Graeham stopped eating and raised a hand, smiling. "Goodbye, and thank you," he said. "Do stop by with Marcus sometime soon."

  The bowlegged little man gave him a big, cocky wink. "We will, Boss. We'll eat all your muffins!"

  Graeham smiled widely, with obvious affection. "I would expect nothing less, Jimmy."