Murder At Rudhall Manor (17 page)

Lucy had never enjoyed snuff, but currently she would have
given anything for a sniff of the stuff. She needed something heartening. Some
sort of concoction to bolster spirits, to instil courage and to put the wag in
the unhappy tail.

She would have given half a leg for a bottle of brandy, even
if it was the cheap stuff. But, alas, the room had been cleared out. Not a
cigar, not a cigarette, not a drop of morphine lurked in any corner.

She was doomed to push on without mind numbing solids or
liquids. She had to prepare to leap into the unknown, trickle down a makeshift
rope, dash across the moonlit garden and make her way through the dark forest
until she reached a far off civilization.

She would live on birds and leaves. Drink from a stream and
nibble on sweet berries. She would light a roaring fire every night using wood
she had collected all day and chirrup with the birds that she had not eaten.

She would work as a maid in an inn, saving up the pennies
until one day she would escape the English shores. Escape the monsters who were
looking for her, who wanted to hang her for a crime she had never committed.

And then … and then she would stow away on a ship to India
where a rajah would be befogged upon seeing her beauty and whisk her off to his
palace. She would marry him and have twelve little children in twelve warm cots
with twelve capable nannies.

The rosy daydream ended as she made the final knot in the
bed sheet.

She had tied two curtains and a bed sheet together and added
knots at various intervals to make a ladder. It was something she knew she was
good at considering the number of times she had wriggled out of her room at the
orphanage and hopped over the neighbour's garden to steal apples.

Next, she bound the rope around the leg of the heavy writing
desk, clambered on top of the desk, threw open the window and flung the rest of
the rope out of it.

She poked her head out inspecting the ground below.

The end of her rope had disappeared into a bush.

She dashed back to the bed, shoved two pillows under her
dress which she could use as a cushion, warming pan or smothering tool
depending on the circumstances, knotted a shawl around her endangered neck and
considered herself completely prepared for the adventure ahead.

A deep breath later she vibrated down the rope and tumbled
into the bush below.

It was cold. The ground was covered in ankle deep snow,
while the full moon was gazing down at her disapprovingly.

She stuck her tongue out at the moon and started walking.

The night was bright and she could be easily spotted. She
wondered where the blasted clouds were when she wanted them.

She chose to stick close to the hedges and crouching low
darted forward hoping the shadows would conceal her.

She scuttled forward for some time flitting from one looming
shadow to another, but it wasn't long before her bended knees started to
complain.

Her knees demanded to be straightened. They wailed loud and
high about being misused. Soon the distressed knees threatened to stiffen and
play dead if things continued to go on as they were.

She had no choice. She was forced to straighten the
protesting joints.

She walked upright for a while, and soon with each new step,
her fear began to diminish. And the reason for her rapidly abating fear was her
internal monologue where she was trying to see the positive side of things.

Sure, a wild animal could attack her at any moment, but she
was strong. Stronger than many people supposed she was. She could easily defeat
the animal, lug it over her shoulders and roast it later for a late night
supper.

Or a deadly bandit could be creeping along the boundary of
Rudhall Manor. She raised her chin in the air. A deadly bandit or a mangy crook
couldn’t frighten her. After all, she was one of them at the moment.

She would tell them about her plight and they would
sympathise … yes, they would sympathise with a fellow outlaw and offer her a
dodgy hand and swear to protect her imperilled head.

She would become friends with these new found robbers. Join
them in their mission and become the smartest, sharpest and the most infamous
woman in the world.

Miss Lucy Anne Trotter, the glamorous jewel thief. It
sounded right.

Her cautious steps became more confident, her fearful
shuffle turned into a confident strut and her brisk walk started warming her up
as she continued to daydream.

She would wear her hair up at all times, studded with
diamond pins that could unlock anything in the world. She would swirl her
skirts a certain way every time she robbed someone successfully and perform an
enchanting little dance. She would mingle with the likes of the regent, the
king and even the world renowned highwayman, the Falcon—

Scratch, scratch, scratch, a sound whispered through the
still night.

She froze, her eyes swivelling in all directions. Her brave
little heart faltered and her brave little thoughts scampered away.

Shuk, shuk, shuk, a new sound started a moment later.

Fear in all its roaring glory slammed back into her.

Skreeeek whispered through the air.

It was close, whatever it was. Was it an animal or human,
she couldn't tell.

Thump.

She jumped out of her skin and then pulled it back on. That
sound had been loud enough to dispel any thought that it was her imagination.

Heart pounding, she started inching forward and soon
quickened her pace. She didn’t want to wait around to be discovered.

It wasn't long before she was pelting down the path.

She flew through the night, her hands flapping about her
like a one winged duck. Her feet skimmed, slipped and slid over the snow
occasionally landing on a crunchy leaf or a snappy twig.

The pins in her hair abandoned ship and ran away, one of the
pillows slipped out from beneath the dress and bounced towards a prickly bush,
and finally her best pair of stockings laddered up from toe to hip.

All at once her hurrying ankle slammed into something hard
on the ground. She flew through the air like a baby dolphin leaping over a
frothy wave and splashed onto the snow covered ground.

Spitting the snow out of her mouth, she scrambled up into a
sitting position and looked behind to see what she had tripped on.

A soft scream escaped her and her eyes widened in horror.

A man was lying face down on the ground behind her.

Her stomach twisted sickeningly as she dared to nudge the
body with her toe.

Was he dead?

A little fearfully she pushed the man harder with her foot.

The body flipped over instead of shifting in the snow. It
was lighter than she had expected.

Far lighter … inhumanly light.

She also realised that the body did not have a face. All she
could see was white skin and no features.

Her palms turned cold and her vision started blurring.

This was a nightmare.

A sickening sensation started blooming in her stomach and
her tongue felt dry and parched.

That horrible featureless face, white as snow, was glowing
eerily in the night.

She was going to faint ….

A single cloud fluttering in front of the moon drifted away,
and in the more vivid light Lucy's hazy vision registered something familiar.

The body was inanimate. The skin was not skin but plain
white cloth. It was a large doll in shape of a man.

Lucy giggled hysterically. Who would make a doll that size?
Did the children make it for some silly game?

The doll even had clothes on. Late Lord Sedley's clothes.

The laughter died in her tonsils.

She frowned and reached out to touch the gilt buttons when a
hiss to her right arrested her fingers in mid-air.

Dark, feral eyes shimmered in the moonlight.

 Palmer, the baboon, sat watching her every move, a
knife glinting in his small hairy hands.

She gulped.

Something was dreadfully wrong. The very air encompassing
Palmer seemed to throb with danger.

She looked back at the doll.

The bright moon illuminated dark criss-cross lines on the
doll's chest.

Her heart filled with dread. The lines were slashes made by
a dagger.

Her eyes widened in understanding as the broken puzzle
floated together and formed a whole, vivid and dangerous picture.

A myriad of scenes raced by in her mind.

Everyone had an alibi in the house.

Lord Adair's words that it was something like a ghost.

Lady Sedley screaming at the baboon for having leaped over
the gate to steal the sugared pineapples.

The images came in quick succession now … Palmer eating with
a spoon, picking nits out of Ian's hair, faithfully copying a number of Peter's
gestures …

Using a dagger to stab Lord Sedley six times in the chest.

Palmer moved, wrenching her back to the present. His large,
dark body slowly came to rest on his hands.

She stumbled backwards in fright and her foot landed on
something sharp that dug through her thin boots. Stifling a scream, she looked
down and found a spade jutting out from underneath her boot.

Holding back the growing panic, she cast a desperate eye
around herself searching for a means of escape and spotted a freshly dug ditch
nearby.

Her eyes flickered from the neat length of the ditch to the
large dummy.

Her heart thundered in her ribs and she lurched backwards in
horror.

It wasn't a ditch at all but a grave for the doll.

"It is a pity you discovered us," Peter's voice
said in her ear.

Something cold and hard jabbed her spine.

She stopped breathing.

"Stand up," he ordered.

"You are very clever," she said, her voice thick
with fear.

He slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her up.
"We are going to walk towards the animal house now. Don't try and
scream."

"You trained Palmer. He leaped over the gate, entered
the room and stabbed Lord Sedley in the chest when he was asleep."

"Lower your tone," he whispered, his fingers
digging into her waist in warning.

She allowed herself to be led in silence for a bit. Her
brain was working harder and clearer than ever before. Every sound, every
colour suddenly seemed enhanced in her mind's eye.

"What are you going to do with me?" she asked.

"Kill you."

She swallowed nervously. "You won't get away with
another murder."

"But you won't be murdered, Miss Trotter. You will
leave a note stating how you couldn’t bear the guilt of having blood on your
hands before I shoot you. According to the world, you would have committed
suicide."

Terror seized her limbs.

Peter had to begin dragging her through the snow for her
feet were now refusing to move.

 "The animals will miss me," she said, trying
to appeal to his softer side.

Peter stopped walking. "True. You are a good person,
Miss Trotter, and I don't have anything against you. I don't want to harm you,
but I am left with no other choice."

A shadow moved in the corner of her eye.

"You planted the jewels in my room," she said
desperate to keep him talking. Someone was nearby listening to every word they
were saying, "so that I became a definite suspect. I was always meant to
be sacrificed."

"Curious," he replied thoughtfully. "I never
touched the jewels until this evening when the butler handed them over to me. I
honestly believed you had stolen them."

"I did not steal anything."

He made a disbelieving noise.

A twig snapped behind them, and she quickly spoke to
distract him from the sound. "Why did you do it?"

He said meditatively, "Father insulted me often, hated
me and always preferred Ian. But it wasn't hatred for my father that pushed me
to do this. It was love. Love for the poor helpless animals in the world."

She nodded frantically encouraging him to go on.

He continued, "So many animals in this world need
shelter, Miss Trotter. Surely you understand that. I have to feed them, to give
them all they require. I have to travel and find the most beautiful creatures
in the world and bring them home to live with me. And I couldn't do any of it
unless this mansion was sold. And Father would not agree. He refused to sell
it. I had to kill him," he finished passionately.

"I understand," she lied.

His grasp on her waist gentled. "I would have helped
you run away, Miss Trotter, if only you had confided in me. It wouldn't have
come to this. You could have set sail for France and had a fortune to spend. I
could have sold this house and everyone would have believed you had murdered my
father. It would have been ideal."

"Please," she whispered, "you can still let
me go. I will go to France. Run away from here. You don't have to kill
me."

"I know you don't blame me. My pets … they know a good
soul," he said softly. "I will miss you, Miss Trotter. But since you
know the truth, I cannot risk letting you live." He sighed unhappily,
"I will have to sacrifice you for the larger good. I know you understand …
only you can. Come along, my love, and we will write that note. It's getting
late."

She squeezed her eyes closed. This was her chance, and she
prayed that whoever was following behind them was not the blasted baboon but an
intelligent human being.

She looked towards the three stars twinkling in the sky and
wondered if a fourth would be forming in a moment from now.

Heart thundering, she ignored Peter's tug on her waist and
opened her mouth and screamed like a crazed banshee, "Look, a BLOOMING
FLYING ELEPHANT!"

Peter looked.

Instantly her fingers flew to his nostril and rammed
themselves in. Her elbow moved at the same time and slammed against his
stomach.

"Oof," he exclaimed and his hold on her slackened.

She ducked and twirled out of his grip in time to spot Lord
Adair come flying towards Peter's wrist.

He grabbed Peter's hand and twisted it until his fingers
spread in pain and the pistol fell out.

In a blink of an eye Lord Adair held the pistol to Peter's
defeated temple.

It all happened so fast that her head was left reeling. She
dazedly watched Lord Adair tighten his hold on Peter's neck almost unable to
believe that the real culprit had been nabbed and that she was free.

Lord Adair grinned and cocked an eyebrow at her.
"Blooming elephant?"

"Flying elephant," Peter corrected in disgust.

"It worked, didn’t it?" she asked, her knees
sagging in relief.

 "If only you hadn't said elephant," Peter
growled, "I wouldn't have looked."

"I considered shouting yellow buffalo," she
informed him.

"Blast it," Peter muttered and allowed Lord Adair
to lead him away.