Accomplished In Murder (2 page)

“Oh it is,” he assured, his eyes glinting in
the darkness. “For one of us.”

There was something dangerous in his voice.
An intensity Celeste had never heard from him before.

Before she could do more than draw in a
startled breath, he had taken her up swiftly in his arms and she
found herself held in the air.

“Good-bye, dear Celeste,” he said. “I cannot
claim ours has ever been a friendly association but I think I shall
miss you, in a way.”

“What are you talking about? Put me down at
once!”

She wriggled in his grip but it was too late.
She felt herself hoisted over the rough stone railing, skirts
dragging behind her. For a terrifying moment, she was suspended
between heaven and earth and only then did she remember to
scream.

He released her and she clutched at him,
grabbed for the railing, anything. But some frantic part of her
knew it was too late.

She fell, as heavily as a stone dropped from
the parapets, her amber-colored skirts billowing around her in a
final, grotesque show of glory. The rocks rose swiftly to meet
her.

The ocean roared and the wind wailed. Lady
Celeste Litchfield was dead.

Chapter Four

Paddington Station, London

“For heaven’s sake, girl, could you move any
slower if you were trying?” Drucilla asked.

It was not really a question, and the maid,
puffing down the crowded platform of the train station, was too
busy with her bags to answer.

Drucilla knew she was being unfair but the
delay caused by her great aunt was putting her in a foul mood. And
to worsen matters, they were in danger of missing their train. All
because cranky old Aunt Bridget, even with the aid of her two
accompanying maids, still could not get her things packed and her
many bags and trunks in order.

Drucilla didn’t glance back at the entourage
following her. She knew the sight of the panting Aunt Bridget and
her stream of servants, trunks, and cats would only sharpen her
annoyance.

It was a relief to clamber aboard the train
and settle into a seat against the window, even if she was shortly
joined by the breathless old lady. With an effort, Aunt Bridget
arranged her bulky skirts and proceeded to bury them both under an
excess of heavy lap rugs, bags containing the articles she could
not do without, and a hamper of sandwiches.

At their feet, she rested another basket from
which escaped the most miserable hissing and yowling sounds.
Drucilla deduced from the noise and the pulsing movement of the
basket that her aunt’s two cats were not pleased to find themselves
so confined.

As they pulled away from Paddington Station,
she thought without relish of the journey ahead. Between her
elderly companion’s wheezing breaths and the smothering cloud of
perfume surrounding her, Drucilla was in discomfort enough without
adding the stifling heat of the unnecessary lap rugs to the
mix.

Aunt Bridget tut-tutted disapprovingly as
Drucilla extricated herself from the rugs. “You’ll catch a chill,
my dear. Dreadfully unhealthy anyway, these trains. One never knows
what manner of disease was hosted by the last occupant of one’s
seat. Nor of those sharing one’s compartment.”

The old lady cast a suspicious glance at
their fellow passengers.

“Bundling up is hardly likely to prevent
either of us contracting disease,” Drucilla pointed out
reasonably.

Aunt Bridget ignored the remark. “I cannot
understand why your brother did not secure a private compartment
for us. As if traveling were not danger and inconvenience enough. I
do not know how I allowed you to persuade me to accompany you away
from London. The country will be quite dreary this time of year. I
only hope Celeste makes certain our accommodations are
adequate…”

She rambled on, clearly only half-aware of
any presence besides her own.

Drucilla took advantage of that and extracted
from her bag the novel she had purchased at a bookstall in the
train station.

However, she found it difficult to
concentrate on the words before her. Unbidden, concerns at what lay
ahead rose up to taunt her. She had been so anxious to fly to
Celeste immediately that she had not taken the time to pen a
response to the invitation. Now she wondered if that had been a
wise decision. How would Celeste’s in-laws at Blackridge House
react to being suddenly descended upon by unexpected guests and a
hoard of servants? For that matter, what would Celeste’s new
husband think?

Drucilla mulled over what she knew of the
gentleman in question. It was little enough. A year ago, she had
never heard the name of Absalom Litchfield and neither, she would
wager, had the rest of London. Celeste had made his acquaintance
while visiting relatives in the countryside last summer. Though her
letters to Drucilla had been full of him at the time, there was
little practical knowledge there, just the lovesick praises of an
eighteen-year-old girl who had clearly been swept away by the charm
of her first real suitor.

Perhaps it was unfair of Drucilla to form an
ill opinion of a man she had not yet met. But there had always
seemed to her something strange about the whirlwind courtship,
followed by a hasty marriage. In a matter of weeks, Absalom
Litchfield had walked into Celeste’s life and carried her away from
her home and all her friends.

Drucilla realized Aunt Bridget had finally
run out of things to ramble about and was snoring noisily beside
her.

She leaned her head back as well and closed
her eyes.

***

It was a tedious journey, broken only by
occasional stops. At the station in Exeter they were able to
procure refreshment, but there was little else to interest them and
they soon continued on their way.

There was another brief stop at Plymouth and
then they crossed the Tamar and entered Cornwall. The quaint little
villages, walled fields, and open countryside rushing past
Drucilla’s window all seemed much the same as those they had left
behind.

It wasn’t until they changed trains at
Penzance and then reached their final stop, the sleepy little
village of Morcastle, that she was able to detect a change in the
air. The breeze was fresh and carried the tang of salt, reminding
her of their nearness to the ocean.

Aunt Bridget grumbled mightily because there
was no one to meet them at the station. Drucilla had managed to
withhold from her that their arrival was not expected and she had
no intention of enlightening her now.

She spoke with the station master, who in
turn directed them to a local inn where they were able to hire a
pair of wagons that would carry them, the servants, and their
baggage to Blackridge House.

Aunt Bridget was appalled at this
arrangement. “Merciful heavens,” she moaned. “Haven’t they a more
suitable conveyance?”

“They have not,” Drucilla said firmly.

When the old lady wrung her hands, Drucilla
lowered her voice persuasively. “Besides, Aunt, think what an
interesting experience it will be to ride about the countryside in
an open cart. We shall be like a pair of rustics.”

Aunt Bridget sniffed doubtfully. “An
adventure, to be sure.”

Despite this little bump in the road,
Drucilla was at length able to persuade her into the first wagon
and they set off. They must surely have been a peculiar sight,
rumbling like a gypsy caravan with all their possessions in tow,
along the rutted path away from the village.

This was hilly country and, with the rise and
dip of the road, Morcastle was soon lost from view.

To Drucilla’s delight, the road soon ran
parallel to the seaside and they were able to look out over the
rugged cliffs to the ocean below. Even Aunt Bridget seemed
impressed by the brilliant blue expanse stretched out before them.
The colors of the azure sky above and the tall, waving grass along
the roadside seemed somehow more vivid here.

“How far to Blackridge House?” Drucilla asked
the wagon driver. He was a local man from the inn, an elderly
fellow with a wild beard, a heavily lined face, and thick streaks
of white in the hair spilling out from beneath his cap.

“A fair distance, young miss. A fair
distance.” And that was all anyone could get out of him.

Drucilla gave up and watched the countryside
roll, or rather,
jounce
by. The road looked as if it had
suffered from a recent washout that had left it in deplorable
condition, and with every rut they sank into or rock they rolled
over, the wagon bounced them about. The basket containing Aunt
Bridget’s precious cats was slung back and forth across the bed of
the wagon until the old lady was at last obliged to wedge it firmly
between her slippered feet.

Drucilla could only imagine how the servants
were faring, traveling further behind them in the wagon loaded with
their luggage.

As the sky began to darken and their
destination remained out of sight, Drucilla grew alarmed. “See
here,” she said to their driver. “Shouldn’t we be able to see the
house by now?”

By way of response, he gestured silently
toward the steep hill ahead. With a creaking of the harness and a
noticeable strain on the part of the horse, which looked as ancient
as their driver, they made their way to the crest of the hill. And
there Drucilla caught her first glimpse of Blackridge House.

Chapter Five

Blackridge had been aptly named, for the
manor house was a great edifice of dark stone, perched near the
edge of a high cliff looking out over the ocean below. Celeste had
written that the structure had been in her husband’s family since
the seventeenth century and Drucilla could well believe it as she
looked down at its blunt, Tudor style arches and oriel windows,
upheld by elaborately carved corbels. Despite the term
house
, it resembled nothing so much as a small castle.

As they drew into the circular carriageway
before the house, a nervous sort of anticipation welled up within
Pricilla. It was all very well back in London to tell herself
Celeste had invited her and Celeste’s in-laws must welcome her. But
with the sinister shadow of Blackridge House looming over her, a
little of her boldness seeped away. There was something about the
place that made one feel insignificant by comparison, that leeched
away one’s confidence.

This feeling was not lessened as they climbed
out of the wagon and ascended the broad stairway. Their driver
appeared thoroughly uneasy with the surroundings and even Aunt
Bridget was cowed into uncharacteristic silence.

And so it was Drucilla who took the
initiative. She grasped the lion’s head knocker of the great door,
felt an odd shiver run through her as she touched the cool brass
beneath her hand, and fleetingly wished she was back at home right
now and miles away from this gloomy spot.

The moment passed and she tapped the knocker
firmly against the door. Their approach must have been observed
because the hollow THUNK of the knocker had no sooner sounded than
one of the heavy double doors creaked open enough to reveal a
round, female face peering out at them. The exotic eyes set against
bronze-tinted skin were wary, suspicious, as they took Drucilla in.
The strange young woman’s full, wine-colored lips formed an
unwelcoming frown.

Drucilla couldn’t help but notice the girl’s
exceptional beauty. Her dark hair was glossy, her face shapely, and
her fingers, appearing around the door’s edge, were long and
slender. She looked more like some visiting foreign princess than a
woman who ought to be answering doors in a great house in Cornwall,
Drucilla thought.

The young woman’s cold welcome was even more
of a surprise. “Who are you and what do you want?” she demanded in
a lightly accented voice. “Do you not know better than to be
knocking on doors at this hour of the night, with the family just
finishing dinner?”

Their driver found his tongue and stepped
forward quickly. “Easy there, Mrs. Portillo. These be some fine
ladies down from the big city. Friends of Lady Litchfield.” His
voice was apologetic as he said to Pricilla, “This here is Mrs.
Portillo, the housekeeper.”

Drucilla blinked but made an effort to
conceal her surprise that such a young and attractive woman should
hold such an important station within the house.

For her part, Mrs. Portillo was eying their
party with new curiosity but gave no sign she was impressed with
what she saw.

Drucilla forced a smile to her stiff lips.
“Hello Mrs. Portillo. My name is Miss Winterbourne and this is my
aunt, Lady Ashworth. We have been invited down to stay by Miss
Celeste—I mean, Lady Litchfield.” It still felt strange to call her
friend by the new name.

Mrs. Portillo looked incredulous. “I have no
orders concerning visitors. The master never spoke a word about
preparing rooms.” The tone of her voice suggested that was her
final word on the matter and it occurred to Drucilla if she did not
act quickly the petite woman would close the door on her.

“I am sorry you were not forewarned,”
Drucilla said firmly, moving closer so the other woman would have
to smash the door over her toes if she meant to close it. It was
the nearest Drucilla had ever come to thrusting her foot into
anyone’s door.

“Obviously there has been some mistake. But
we were invited and if you will just tell Lady Litchfield we have
arrived, I am sure everything will be quickly sorted out.” It was
difficult to keep her gaze sincere when she was all too aware she
was uttering only a half-truth.

Still, something in her look, or possibly in
her dress, must have convinced the woman she was not some
impoverished beggar to be sent away on a servant’s whim. The
housekeeper hesitated and Drucilla seized the opportunity to press
her case.