Up from the Grave (26 page)

“You stupid woman,” Robin Darbyshire screamed and shot backward as the box tumbled to the floor near her feet, the lid flying through the air.

And there it was, as it had been before in this place, a deadly Brazilian Wandering Spider.

The contessa drew her hands to her face and shrieked.

The creature appeared stunned. Then Berdie recognized it, that evil stretch of the legs, the onslaught of the unearthly sway of death.

In a breath, Robin had removed her shoe. With great precision and a laden howl, she drove the stiletto heel, like a spike, into the spider.

The arachnid lay motionless. Then, with eerie resilience, its legs began to stir.

Robin blithely removed her other shoe and forcefully slammed it into the creature again and again and again, as if the vehemence of the spider itself drove Robin’s stabs.

The young woman staggered back and dropped the shoe. Her tussled black hair hung across the aqua blue eyes. She gasped for air and her face went dark.

It was then Berdie became truly aware of Robin’s petite stature. Those five-inch heels were deceptive, indeed, and only confirmed what Berdie had suspected. She crept towards Robin.

In one furious movement, Robin grabbed a porcelain saucer and smashed it against the table. Chinaware flew and scattered across the floor. She gripped what was left of the saucer, a large pointed shard. With startling accuracy, she wheeled the point of it to the stunned Contessa’s throat. Robin grabbed Mrs. Santolio’s arm and screwed it behind the captured woman’s back.

A faint scream seeped from the hostage’s lips, fright making her body sway.

“You escaped before, but this time you’re going to die,” Robin seethed.

“No,” Berdie shouted. “The contessa’s not your problem.”

Oh Lord, protect,
Berdie prayed,
I’ll distract!
“Let her go, Robin. Or should I say, Evergreen?”

The young woman’s eyes flared. Her face revealed astonishment.

“Oh yes, I know. But the contessa is unaware.”

Robin stiffened. Her eyes narrowed. “She was there.”

“Yes, she was there, and you weren’t. That is the problem, isn’t it? But she’s not aware.”

“You miserable, old hag.” Robin sneered.

Berdie observed Robin’s eyes dart beyond the sitting room to the door in the hallway. Carefully, Berdie positioned herself between Robin and the exit.

“Now put the shard down,” Berdie coaxed. “It will do no good to eliminate Mrs. Santolio.”

“She’s nothing more than a common house maid,” Robin screamed.

“And you’re the daughter of the misguided Wanda Pitts.”

A corner of Robin’s mouth curved downward. “Misguided? She was a debauched, manipulative, blackmailing witch.”

“She threatened to reveal all, once she found you, so she had to be disposed of.” Berdie took a tiny step forward. “I know your little secret. Lillie knows, too. And Goodnight is on his way.”

Robin lifted her chin. She released a bit of pressure from the shard, revealing the red imprint on the frightened captive’s neck.

“Perhaps you’re right,” Robin breathed.

She appeared to be relenting.

Then with the strength of ten, Robin withdrew the shard, twisted the contessa round, and thrust the noble woman’s body with its full weight directly into Berdie. The force of it tumbled Berdie and Carlotta headlong. Down with a crash, both sprawled across the floor.

Robin instantly vaulted the two of them and made for the door, her unshod feet thumping as she raced across the room.

Berdie felt pain all through her body as she attempted to get to her feet. She was suddenly grateful for the extra padding of her backside, which took the brunt of the fall.

“Contessa, can you cope?” Berdie asked.

Lying on her back, gasping for air, the contessa nodded.

Like a hound on the fox, Berdie gathered herself, flew to the hallway, and lit out the door.

“You’re not getting away,” Berdie yelled as she breeched the drive and desperately raced after Robin, who was well ahead of her.

Robin sped across the grounds of Swithy Lodge, onto the green that stretched to Swithy Hall.

Berdie thought she saw Goodnight’s car come to a hasty stop in the road at the Lodge.

Good lot that would do. He’d be even further afield from Robin.

“You can’t out run the law,” Berdie cried in Robin’s direction.
What am I thinking? In Goodnight’s case, she’s probably counting on out running it.

Berdie continued her rapid pace still able to keep Robin in sight, no doubt due in part to the fact that the young woman had no proper shoes.

A distant voice fell upon Berdie’s ears. It trailed behind her.

“Bloomin’ monkeys,” came in the panting tone of Albert Goodnight, who, by the sound of it, had joined in the chase.

Robin took a hard right, sprinting into the Hall’s back gardens. Beyond laid the woods.

The need for justice fueled Berdie’s drive, but the shortage of oxygen began to take its toll. Berdie had a moment of regret for all the Devonshire cream heaped on her afternoon scones for all those years.

“Dear God”—Berdie heaved—“stop her.”

A bush just ahead made a jostle. Like a giant red bullet, a fast moving sausage with legs shot from under the vegetation, joined by a bouncy white Highland Terrier.

One quick lift of the nose and Fritz seemed to recognize the scent of one who fed him meat pies.

With energy to spare, the wee dog and his furry friend joined in the chase, running ahead of Berdie as in a merry game. They clipped off gleeful barks as if challenging one another to take part in a jolly good contest of speed.

Berdie felt a sharp momentary pain in her side.
Keep going, old girl
.

The dogs espied the escapee ahead of them and must have decided she was a part of the game: a very large squirrel to be tracked down and dominated.

Robin halted for a brief second. Berdie drew in large gulps of air, but she kept moving.

“Stop in the name of the law,” Goodnight, still trailing Berdie, was just audible.

The policeman’s call appeared to only fuel Robin’s energy. One look in the constable’s direction and the woman sprinted off again.

By now, the rollicking dogs had gained on her.

Berdie dug deeply. “Lord,” she breathed.

A figure emerged from out the distant woods. Berdie recognized the strong figure of Jamie Donovan. She heard him whistle for Snowdrop, the Highland Terrier and beloved Donovan family dog.

“Stop”—pant—“her.” Berdie tried with what breath she could muster to alert Jamie.

He made a quick study of what was happening and stood directly in the middle of Robin’s flight path.

Little Snowdrop now raced near Robin’s feet, dashing for her master.

Berdie heard foul words from Robin’s lips, then the yip of the little white canine that was at the receiving end of Robin’s swift kick. A blur of white toppled across the greenery, and Jamie Donovan was on the move.

The trapped woman made a hard left and ran alongside the old, dilapidated, estate greenhouse.

Fritz was at full bore. He reached Robin, and as if in defiance of her treatment of his wee friend, and in allegiance to his pie-making cohort, the sausage nipped at Robin’s heels.

She tried to maneuver another well-placed kick, but Fritz dodged her.

The relentless and stout-hearted dog landed a precision nip that sent Robin into a howl and threw her off balance.

Arms extended and screaming, her legs flew out from under her. Robin’s body smashed into the neglected greenhouse and penetrated the panes of aged glass. Shards and wood flew all around the woman. She came to rest on her back, the degenerating structure completely smashed.

Fritz continued to yelp. He danced about the scene keeping his giant squirrel at bay.

Jamie, speed his gift, was now where Robin lay. Berdie saw him bend down to check her pulse. She was near enough now to hear a mournful groan from Robin’s lips.

“She’ll survive,” Jamie called. “More’s the pity.”

Berdie soon stood where Robin was now immobilized. A bit of glass protruded from the downed woman’s forehead, creating a trickle of life-giving red liquid across her ivory skin.

“Are you OK, Mrs. Elliott?” Jamie asked.

“Out”—pant—“of breath”—pant—“but fine.” Berdie bent over placing her hands on her knees and took in buckets of air.

“She’s not going anywhere.” Jamie glared at Robin. “I’ll see to Snowdrop.”

Fritz came to rest at Berdie’s feet, panting heavily himself.

“Good lad.” Berdie praised him, and breathed in more fresh oxygen.

Albert Goodnight, at a crawl, arrived. He gasped and grunted like a clapped-out steam tractor on its final plow.

“Robin Darbyshire,” he breathed as he extended his upper body over the groaning woman.

“Evergreen Pitts,” Berdie corrected.

“Huh?” the constable’s face was bright red. He took a gulp of air and continued, “I’m arresting you for,” he paused and looked at Berdie.

“The attempted murder”—pant—“of Carlotta”—pant—“Santolio.”

“The attempted,” he drew in a large swallow of air, “murder of Carlotta Santolio.”

“And”—Berdie stood straight—“the murder of Wanda Pitts.”

Constable Goodnight gazed at Berdie, frowned, and then leaned into Robin’s face. “And for the murder of”—he yanked his thumb in Berdie’s direction— “who she said.”

Jamie approached holding the humbled but unscathed Snowdrop in his muscular arms. “And for kicking my dog,” he snapped.

“We’ll get a medical and then she’s nicked.” The perspiring Goodnight panted, still bent over the body.

“You were quite something,” Jaime directed to Berdie.

“All in a day’s job, my lad,” Goodnight answered. He stood wearing a certain smugness.

Jaime smiled at Berdie who grinned back.

“Now, about the bones.” Goodnight grunted in Berdie’s direction.

“I dare say that’s sorted as well.” She nodded.

“How’s that?”

“That, constable, is a subject that can be discussed over a cup of tea. And I”—Berdie ran the back of her hand across her forehead—“am certainly ready for a nice cuppa. Aren’t you?”

****

A touch of blue peeked through the voluminous grey clouds and faded. Berdie prayed it wouldn’t rain. The garden blessing was taking place momentarily in the newly completed water feature in St. Aidan’s back garden where she, and many from the village, stood.

There were more people than Berdie expected at the garden blessing. Many whispered to one another about her exploits. But here, at this moment, it was neither the time nor place for her to satisfy their curiosity. After what had happened at the sod turning, she expected low attendance. But many in the village considered the gathering today a kind of full circle. Closure.

Berdie inhaled the aroma of flowers whose lovely blooms encircled a humble fountain that looked more a birdbath in the middle of a small pool. It spouted water that created an enchanting trickle, as in a brook: unassuming and peace-inducing. Berdie admired the chiseled stone bench where The Late Count Alberto Santolio Garden Patron was inscribed on the upper edge. The handsome seat welcomed all to take their ease amongst the beauty. A small sculpted lamb sat atop a plinth amongst the flowers, a sweet memorial to a small boy.

There was no choir, no floral arrangements, no chairs. There were no curious coach tour visitors or flash appearances. Mrs. Santolio looked very much the contessa, but she no longer had a need to impress. Mr. Webb, at her side, kept well away from the spotlight.

Ortensia beamed, her broken “Tank you” given to all who inquired about her health.

Loren and Lillie, hand in hand, approached Berdie. “It’s lovely.” Lillie smiled.

“Anyone due to rail or pass out?” Loren’s inquiry was quiet yet held an edge of banter.

“A much more subdued gathering.” Berdie raised a brow. “God willing.”

Hugh stepped near the bench. He called for everyone’s attention.

“We’re here to dedicate this feature to our divine Creator and to the people of our parish.”

He went on to thank the contessa, applaud the landscape artist, and then offered a short but sincere eulogy for the little lad whose bones were now at rest with his rightful family who had gone before. He prayed for solace, joy, and blessing to all who visited the feature. Hugh then invited any whom so wished to enjoy light refreshments at the vicarage. Mr. Webb declared the area officially opened for the enjoyment of the entire village. Young Dave Exton took some snaps for the newspaper.

“There we are. Bob’s your uncle,” Berdie commented in a low tone. “All done quickly and peacefully without a hint of malice in sight.”

“Indeed.” Loren’s jest turned to relaxed agreement.

As the grey clouds tumbled away, people admired the structures and flowers then dispersed quietly. Some gathered at Oak Leaf Cottage, others trooped home.

For those who came to the vicarage, Berdie was at work in the kitchen. She filled pastel-colored trays with little bits of canapés from Villette Horn’s shop.

Lillie entered just as the hall telephone rang.

“Someone will get it,” Berdie asserted to Lillie who had spun on her heel.

“You mean Hugh will get it,” Lillie teased. And she joined Berdie at her task.

“I think today’s do went quite well.”

“I’m surprised the Preswoods weren’t in attendance.”

“They are in profound grief.” Berdie was matter-of-fact. “I shouldn’t wonder if it’s a long time before they join village life again.”

“If you consider it, they’ve lost two loved ones.” Lillie sighed.

“In an odd sort of way, they’ve also added a family member, although I’m not sure they’re very keen.”

“Ah yes, the so called John Smith.” Lillie placed the last bit on the full-to-the-brim tray.

Hugh swung through the kitchen door. “Love, that was Wilkie Gordon ringing up. He’s invited us for Easter lunch on Sunday.”

He looked at Lillie. “You and Loren as well.”

“Lovely.” Berdie smiled. But she noted Hugh didn’t appear so keen.

“He mentioned that he wants to hear all the details of how you cracked the case.”