Murder At Rudhall Manor (2 page)

Time seemed to have paused, and a strange sort of
enchantment appeared to have enveloped Blackwell village.

The grey clouds had meandered over to partially cover the
sun and dim the evening light to a faded blue-grey while the mist crept out
like a soft-footed thief and blanketed the moist ground.

Birds flew back to their nests, and insects burdened with
their latest meal scurried home as fast as their many legs could carry them.

Night seemed to be lingering on the horizon, waiting to
pounce and plunge the land into darkness.

The villagers huddled together in the square having
abandoned their shops and homes in haste. The lonesome village lay deserted
with forgotten stew pots still simmering over roaring fires and burning tallows
dripping precious wax.

All was quiet, but this time the silence was not heavy with
sleep but alert and tensed.

The temperature plummeted, and foggy tendrils began
trickling out of hundreds of mouths. Men and women shuffled closer like a pack
of newborn pups trying to get warm.

Lucy stared around in wonder, the chicken leg forgotten.
What, she mused, had dragged a butcher with his knife still dripping blood, a
laundry woman with a forgotten pair of soapy yellow breeches draped on one
shoulder, and a young man without said pair of breeches out in this freezing
weather?

"There," someone yelled.

"My breeches," the young man screeched.

"Ooh," the crowd gasped as they all raised their
faces towards the sky.

Lucy squinted, her hand flying up to shade her eyes from the
setting sun.

A few people started whispering prayers, and the old men
became eerily quiet.

The children whimpered in fear and awe while old women
proclaimed that it was the second coming.

The young girls giggled nervously, one even boldly declaring
that it was sorcery.

"It cannot be a bird," the old village doctor said
using his dispassionate scientific mind.

"It has no wings," agreed the blacksmith, another
logical fellow.

"An angel," a young boy breathed reverently.

"Hush!" His mother smacked him on the head.

"The Devil," a young girl offered this time.

She was ignored, though all those who heard her quickly
crossed themselves.

Angel …. Devil … a wingless bird? All Lucy could see was a
hazy dark blob in the sky, since her eyesight was poor. She stamped a small
foot in frustration as she strained to give shape and form to it.

"Oh, it is dipping. It is going to fall," cried
out a voice.

"Eeep," the crowd squealed, now bouncing on their
toes in excitement.

"It's paused now … hovering in mid-air," the same
voice commented.

Lucy scowled at the gasping villagers and impatiently
scanned the sky wishing the thing would hurry up and move closer. She would
race back to Rudhall, she promised herself, as soon as she had a clear picture
of it … whatever
it
was.

Lady Sedley would be angry, but she had to stay. A few more
moments wouldn't make a difference. The speck was already larger. It would be
above them in no more than five minutes.

As if reading her mind, the contraption sped closer and the
crowd gasped, some in apprehension, while a few who now recognised it, in
delight.

The flickering flame, the white inflated cloth and the woven
basket could now be clearly discerned in the grey sky.

Lucy, too, made out its shape and grinned in pure joy. She
had read about them in books, seen sketches, but to actually see one … it was
breathtaking.

"It is a balloon," a few educated voices cried out
suddenly.

"Certainly, a travelling balloon," a few more
echoed in excitement.

"A balloon in Blackwell? Sorcery is more like it,"
screeched an irrational woman's voice.

"Foolishness,” responded the younger men. "It is
only a balloon,” they echoed in superior tones. But in spite of the affected
boredom, every set of eyes remained trained on the sky.

Lucy prayed for sun to delay its setting for a moment
longer. A minute more and it would be right above their hatted heads.

''It is descending," the children screamed running
towards the rapidly lowering balloon.

The more loving mothers rushed into action, grabbing their
little hands and pulling them away from the balloon's landing spot lest the
children be squished under the wicker basket.

Lucy clasped a delicate hand to her stomach where a hundred
butterflies seemed to be bursting out of their cocoons. The odd sensation was
partly due to the fact that she had eaten an extraordinary amount of iced lemon
biscuits an hour before, as well as the fact the balloon was rapidly speeding
towards the ground.

She balanced herself on her tippy toes and focused her
entire being on drinking up the sight.

Her eager eyes noted the dark silhouette of a man bravely
leaning over the edge of the balloon.

The sun was now positioned right behind the balloon, and the
fire burning behind the man made her eyes water as she tried to see his
features.

Black spots danced in front of her eyes, and her heart stood
still.

"By Jove," someone yelled.

"By George," a feminine voice echoed.

"Egad," squealed the children.

The balloon was plunging towards the earth.

A hush fell in the square apart from the sound of a
twittering bird and a cow chewing on a pair of yellow breeches.

The villagers waited in breathless silence, a prayer on
every lip for the unknown traveller's safety.

Lucy feared the balloon would flip over in mid-air, tossing
the fellow out of the basket, and he would fall to the ground like a wingless
bird.

Nothing of the sort happened.

It was with an undramatic thud that the balloon rocked down
to earth.

Lucy's heart started up again, this time racing in
excitement.

The children screamed in delight, piercing the taut silence,
and rushed towards the contraption.

The men and women swarmed closer on pretext of caring for
the children when, in fact, all eyes and ears were focused on the man before
them.

Lucy felt the change in the crowd as they collectively took
a small step back.

Shoulders tensed and mothers clutched their children to
their breasts. The men straightened and thrust their chests out, while the old
men gripped their walking sticks.

Some of the girls swooned.

A sense of distrust swept through the crowd.

Lucy, standing right at the back, was barely able to see the
newcomer between all the teeming bodies. Her face fell as the church bell
peeled.

She would be late and Lady Sedley would not be happy.

But if she left, the question of the man on the balloon
would haunt her forever.

A sharp intake of breath from a tall man standing a few feet
in front of her as he spotted the traveller decided her, and she fell to her
knees. She could bear the suspense no longer.

She
had
to see.

Accordingly, she began crawling towards the balloon
unheeding of her dress.

She slipped between legs, saved her fingers from being
trampled upon by boots and dodged excited children. The cold stones bit into
her palms burning through her gloves.

She clenched her teeth and quickened her pace.

She reached the front and in a smile of victory gazed upon
the golden-slippered feet of the traveller. The slippers were intricate in
design with what looked like tiny rubies studded in triangular shapes all over.

Her gaze travelled upwards and encountered an emerald green
velvet night robe edged with gold brocade draped over excellent shoulders and
firmly tied at the waist. A dark hand held a glowing cigar between two long
fingers, its smoke curling and flirting with the mist in the air.

Finally, her eyes fell on the face, and for the second time
that day she stopped breathing.

He was the most perfect specimen of a man that she had ever
seen. He had a long aristocratic nose, sensual lips, square jaw, sharp chin …
and his dark eyes … his eyes were sheer poetry, framed by the longest, thickest
lashes she had ever seen.

"Why is a hatless man wearing a night robe and house
slippers flying over England in a balloon?" someone muttered.

"Mark my words," the blacksmith growled, "he
is a loon."

The blacksmith's young wife shoved an elbow into her
husband's ribs. "You are the loon." Her eyes turned dreamy. "I
think he is wonderful."

"Wonderful," Lucy silently agreed.

''Lord Adair, welcome to Blackwell," the village doctor
greeted the man excitedly.

"Lord Adair?" someone whispered.

The name floated from one ear to another and within moments
the crowd was beaming a warm welcome. The backs of men straightened, while a
few more women swooned.

"Lord Adair, the Marquis of Lockwood," the
children gushed in worship.

Lucy refused to believe it was truly him; the famous, beloved
of all England and legendary Lord Adair standing right before her common eyes.
Her mouth dropped open in awe.

"Saved the king and the regent, he did," the
Blacksmith said proudly.

Lord Adair looked over the edge of the basket and grimaced,
no doubt wondering how to alight gracefully in a house robe.

"Oh my," the blacksmith's wife breathed, “what a
lovely grimace."

"I apologise for my ungainly entry and my attire,"
Lord Adair told the doctor in a deep, rich voice. He jumped down to the ground.

The robe fluttered up revealing his ankles. A gasp went
through the crowd at the beauteous sight, and the women declared that
particular body part as perfection defined.

Lord Adair continued speaking as if unaware of the sensation
his presence was causing. "My good friend Professor Bagwit recently
procured this travelling balloon, and he arrived at my home very early this
morning to show it to me. I couldn't contain my curiosity and bounced out of
bed in my robes and directly went to inspect it."

"Naturally," the doctor replied.

"I was pottering about inspecting knobs and turning
wheels inside the basket. The next thing I know a seagull is squawking in my
ear and a cloud skims by my nose."

"Naturally, naturally," the doctor soothed.

"I looked over the edge and found myself miles above
the ground. I spotted poor Professor Bagwit looking like a small imp, jumping
up and down, no doubt shouting instructions on how to get down which,
unfortunately, I could not hear."

"Oh, dear, dear." The doctor bobbed his head.

"It took me a good few hours to learn how to descend
safely," Lord Adair finished, his black eyebrows coming together in an
unhappy frown. (The village poet promptly swore to write an ode to those fine
eyebrows while the blonde women decided to dye their own brows pitch black.)

"You must be cold," the doctor said.

"A touch," Lord Adair replied through blue lips.
"If you have an inn—"

"If we have an inn!" the doctor exclaimed.
"Blackwell has a splendid inn called the Pickled Boar. Blackwell also has
a lot of wells, hence the name Blackwell," the doctor continued. "I
must tell you about the remarkable soil we have here. Almost dark red in colour
… so much water and yet not much grows here. Miserable place this … But happy
to have you here. I hope you will have a pleasant stay. That is if you intend
to stay … And if you do, then where will you stay …?''

Lucy, still on all fours, ignored the nervous doctor's
prattle. Instead, she focused on Lord Adair.

Even his back was handsome. She sighed and then stilled.

Lord Adair had stopped walking and ever so slowly he turned
around to look at the balloon that sat in the middle of the square. His gaze
shifted and moved downwards falling on Lucy.

His eyes burned into hers as if taking apart bits of her
soul and analysing it.

Everything around her faded, the sounds softened to nothing
and the world seemed to tilt.

The wet earth chose that moment to soak through her skirts
and give her knee an icy pinch. She started awake and became aware of who she
was and in whose eyes she was drowning. She smiled widely and blew him a kiss.

A flash of surprise crossed his face, and he quickly turned
on his heels.

Lucy rested her chin on her hands and dreamily watched him
walk away.

''Doxie," someone muttered above her head, and Lucy
minded not one bit.

With Lord Adair's departure, the sun decided it was time for
a snooze, and the romance, excitement and golden warmth of the day faded away
ushering back the dull practicalities of life.

All too soon the cold black wings of the night wrapped
around Lucy and she shivered nervously.

The way back to Rudhall Manor was short but unlit and
slippery with mud. If she wanted to reach the manor with all her bones intact,
she would have to convince someone to take her back.

She finally decided to ask the old innkeeper to give her a
ride in his cart.

It took her some time to convince the surly innkeeper and
his equally sullen old donkey to leave the picturesque village with its cobbled
streets and enter the dark, unlit road to the manor.

The journey was short, but the open cart and periodic gusts
of chilly wind made it feel like hours.

Finally, Rudhall manor loomed up before them looking
particularly grim. It had never been a pretty bit of architecture, but lit by
moonlight it seemed almost menacing squatting on the slight hill like an evil,
warty toad.

Lucy leaped off the cart and raced indoors. Her fingers were
chilled in frayed gloves, the drenched, rough wool cloth of her bodice was
dragging at her shoulders, while her stomach was clenching in hunger.

She sped down the hallway looking forward to a cup of hot
sweet tea, dry clothes and a roaring fire.

Alas, it was not to be.

Hodgson, the butler, sympathetically informed her that she
was to meet Lady Sedley in the morning room at once.

Reluctantly, she changed directions and arrived outside the
morning room.

"The governess stole it."

Lucy's hand that had been about to open the door to the
morning room froze, and her ear immediately plastered itself to the door.

They were talking about her, and it was only fitting that
she eavesdrop.

"Why do you think the governess did it? Do you have any
proof?"

Lucy frowned. That masculine voice … she had heard it
before. It was a rumbly sort of voice. The sort of voice that made her feel odd
in the pit of her stomach. And the words … they were uttered in crisp, cultured
tones with a touch of melody to it. She shivered, and it was only partly
because of the cold.

"She is the only one missing from the house."

That was Miss Elizabeth Sedley, the only daughter of Lord
and Lady Sedley, speaking in her distinct throaty voice. Lucy shoved a finger
in her ear and wriggled it about. At least it had sounded like Elizabeth's
voice, but the tone …

"She left early this evening."

This time Lucy was certain that it was Elizabeth Sedley speaking.
It was hard to mistake a voice that sounded like it was suffering from a
perpetual cold.

What had thrown her off was the fact that Elizabeth was five
feet, ten inches of beautifully sculpted ice. The woman never smiled, let alone
simpered, but her current tone had held a definite coyness, a hint of womanly
modesty and even a blob of dashed warmth.

It was decidedly odd.

"She has gone to the village." Peter Sedley's soft
voice broke into Lucy's thoughts.

"She won't be back," Lady Sedley told her eldest
son. "The day I set my eyes on Miss Trotter, I knew she was the wrong
sort. We should have never hired her … I don’t know why we did."

Lucy frowned and pinned her eye on a spider crawling up the
wall.

"Who recommended her?" the stranger asked.

"Lady May. She is a good friend of the family, or
rather was a good friend until she inflicted that girl upon us. She runs a few
orphanages and Miss Lucy Anne Trotter happened to grow up in one of them.
Brooding Cranesbill, it is called. With a name like that …." Elizabeth
shook her head in disgust. "They did say she was well qualified for the
task."

Lady Sedley moaned. "Alas, it was a rotten day when we
took her up on her offer. Here we thought we were doing some poor unfortunate
girl a good turn, and see where it landed us—in hot water, my lord, in very hot
water. Would you like some tea?"

"Err, no, thank you. Why did you choose an orphan and
not a relative in need?"

After a brief silence, Lady Sedley said, "We really
couldn't think of any relative …," she trailed off.

"They
are
your late sister's children," the
man remarked.

"Yes, and with a fair bit of fortune," Lady Sedley
replied with a hint of bitterness. "They are to get it once they come of
age. We hired this girl, this Trotter, to teach the little monsters. Honestly,
Tryphena should have allowed us to have access to the children's money. How she
expected us to care for such evil little gremlins and pay for their
education—"

"Mother," Elizabeth warned softly.

Lucy shifted momentarily, trying to get comfortable. She
arched her back and rotated her neck and then stuck her ear back to the door.

She knew why they had hired her, a girl with no experience …
because she had agreed to work for a mere pittance, and the Sedley family
fortunes were not in the best of health at the moment. But they couldn't
possibly admit such a thing to a stranger, who from the honeyed tones of
Elizabeth and Lady Sedley seemed to be an important personage.

"She will be back soon," Peter repeated.

Lucy knew that Peter, the eldest child in the Sedley family,
was currently blushing, for he always blushed whenever he uttered a full
sentence.

She imagined his pale, almost translucent skin flushed pink,
his eyes downcast and a few strands of fine blonde hair hanging over his broad
forehead. He was an attractive fellow with a pleasant sort of temperament—a manly
wallflower who seemed out of place among the rest of the Sedley family.

"Any other reason for believing Miss Trotter is
responsible?" The stranger queried.

"Oh, so you
are
going to help us,"
Elizabeth exclaimed. “I am so glad Ian thought of you."

"I ran into him in the village. He had once done me a
good turn, and now that I have a chance, I would like to repay him by helping
his family."

"My youngest child … yes, Ian is the good one,"
Lady Sedley said, forgetting that her other children were sitting right next to
her. "But I would not like to involve you in such a petty matter, my lord.
I think we can find the thief ourselves—"

"This once, I disagree, Mamma," Elizabeth spoke
over her mother. "I think Ian is right. We really should let him help
us."

"It would be my pleasure," the man replied.

Lucy imagined Elizabeth nodding smugly as she said,
"Now, let us quickly tell you all about this thief before she leaves the
country and is lost forever."

Lady Sedley reluctantly picked up where her daughter had
left off. "The governess's full name is Lucy Anne Trotter. Her parents
were innkeepers and they died in a fire. Miss Trotter was five at the time.
Thereafter, she was taken by a relative to the Brooding Cranesbill, which is an
orphanage run by an admirable lady called Miss Marianne Summer."

Elizabeth made an annoyed sound. "Miss Trotter was said
to be the sharpest of the lot, but truly it was a dreadful lie. The girl has
been a nightmare. She has behaved in the most suspicious manner ever since her
arrival."

Lucy relocated the spider and forced herself to follow its
progress. It moved up the white wall like a drunken old man, scuttling up one
way, pausing and then changing direction.

"She is always watching," Lady Sedley confirmed.

"She also likes sliding down banisters. I caught her
doing just that with the children the other day," Elizabeth said
passionately. "How can someone who sings and dances with no one around,
slides down banisters and has the audacity to call the master of the house an
oozing pustule—"

"She did what?" the man interrupted.

"You heard that right. She called him an oozing
pustule, and only because he pinched her bottom. Now, my lord, I would not like
to speak of such things, being a lady, but she had no trouble yelling at the
top of her lungs about her pinched bottom. She also threatened a whole lot of
unseemly things when the other day poor sozzled Ian happened to fall into her
room at a late hour. She could have been polite and shown him the door, but no,
she punched him and gave him a bloody nose. My brother was pinked, my lord,
pinked. Honestly, what sort of an educated lady does such things?"

"I caught her prying too … She likes looking at
things," Lady Sedley added moodily. "She is curious."

"I don’t understand what Father and Ian see in her. She
has a gap between her teeth, an upturned nose and big brown eyes. She looks
like a starved rabbit. Rotten thing, she is. Arrest her, sir, and throw her in
the gallows. Send her to the continent," Elizabeth demanded.

"Hang her," Lady Sedley exploded.

A small silence ensued, laced with a lot of heavy breathing.

Meanwhile, Lucy wondered if a spider fell into a bottle of
gin and was quickly fished out before it drowned, would it become maudlin?

Suddenly there was a crash and then Lady Sedley's quivering
voice said, "I am glad I won't have to see that vase again. One should not
be forced to keep unsightly things …."

"Just like Miss Trotter," Elizabeth finished.

Lady Sedley made a noise that sounded like agreement and
continued. “It is a good thing her parents are dead or—"

Lucy saw red.

"Oh, you bloody rotten things," she screeched
charging into the room. Her entire body was shaking in rage. "How dare you
accuse me of stealing? Rotten, am I? Let me tell you who is rotten, and as for
being a lady, I saw you squeezing the valet—"

"Silence," Lady Sedley roared. "How dare you
accuse me of such things? I have never squeezed anyone in my entire life. Pack
your bags and depart this very moment."

"Oh, I will depart this very instant. Give me my salary
and I shall be out of this horrid place. I would rather go back to the
orphanage than stay a moment longer in this pretentious house. "

"You will not get a penny," Lady Sedley screamed.

"Oh, yes, I will," Lucy yelled charging towards
Lady Sedley. "I am going to take every penny that you owe me, you rotten
woman."

An iron hand clamped around her waist.

"Blasted, blithering fools, crusty scabs, toad-eaters,"
Lucy howled. Her hands clawed the air and her body squirmed to get away.
"Let me at her, let me at the frosty-faced witch."

"You dare call me a frosty-faced witch." Lady
Sedley howled back. "Blooming idiot—"

"I bloom all right," Lucy broke in, "but I am
not an idiot. You are."

"Why you miserable hag," Elizabeth moved forward a
step.

Lucy struggled to free the hands gripping her waist.
"Why look, Lady Sedley," she said sarcastically, "your own
daughter agrees with me. I called you a witch and she called you a hag—"

"You are the hag," Elizabeth said jabbing a finger
in Lucy's direction.

"Well, Miss Sedley, I know you are talking to your
mother, but it seems you are now cockeyed. Your finger is pointing towards me
instead of Lady Sedley—"

"I am going to break all her bones," Elizabeth
screeched.

"Come and try." Lucy narrowed her eyes.

The hand at her waist tightened. "Stay still, Miss
Trotter. Behave … Lady Sedley, sit down and, Elizabeth, put the poker back in
the fireplace. Now, let us discuss this in a civilized manner."

Lucy took a deep breath, her hands were still trembling in
anger, but something in the tone of the man holding her made her close her
mouth.

"I am letting you go now, Miss Trotter. I trust you
will behave?"

"I will," Lucy bit out.

"Lady Sedley, Miss Sedley, please sit down."

They went and rigidly sat on the pink sofa.

The hands slowly fell away from Lucy's waist, and the
stranger finally stepped forward and into her view.

A familiar emerald green velvet robe edged with gold brocade
gleamed in the firelight. The rubies in the slippers sparkled, while dark eyes
peered at her from beneath long full lashes.