Murder At Rudhall Manor Read online

  Chapter 1

  "Miss Trotter, I hope you understand what an honour this is?"

  "Yes, Miss Summer," Lucy replied meekly.

  "You will be stepping out into the world and leaving the comforts of this orphanage forever. You will be representing us, Miss Trotter, in an aristocratic family, and I hope you will do nothing to tarnish our good name."

  "No, Miss Summer."

  "We have fed you, clothed you and educated you. You were one of the privileged young women allowed to take lessons in French, History and Latin instead of being trained to scrub fireplaces or work in a mill."

  "Yes, Miss Summer."

  "Do you know why you were allowed such advantages?"

  "No, Miss Summer."

  "Because you have something rare, something that is lacking in over half of the world's population. It is a thing so beautiful that I cannot ignore it when I see it."

  "Truly, Miss Summer?"

  "Yes, Miss Trotter. You have that something rare and precious that is commonly known as a brain. And I have met very few brains in my life, my dear. Most have been pulpy, frothy or entirely empty. But not yours. Oh, no, no, no … your upper story is remarkable. It is well-oiled, functioning and above all sparkling." The dark eyes above full pink cheeks narrowed. "But that does not mean you are devoid of faults."

  "No, Miss Summer."

  "At the Brooding Cranesbill we have tried our best to cleanse you of your peccadilloes, but I can see we have not completely succeeded." The old teacher moved forward in her seat and the silver streaks in her scraped back hair glinted in the light. "Are you certain, child, that you wouldn't rather work for the doctor? He said you were good at making healing salves and never so much as squealed at the sight of blood. His patients liked you—"

  "I want to be a governess, miss."

  "Well, then, if you are certain?" At Lucy's firm nod, she continued. "You do not squeal at the sight of blood, but you do squeal at the sight of ribbons. You must curtail this pleasure in frivolous things."

  "Yes, Miss Summer."

  "You will remember at all times that you are an adult now. You cannot play with the children as if they are your equal or behave in any childish manner."

  "I won't forget, Miss Summer—"

  Once again, Miss Summer leaned forward in her seat arresting Lucy's tongue. "You won't change your mind? I can let you take care of the young children here at the orphanage. I will even pay you, not as much as Lord Sedley is offering but close enough. You are hardworking, intelligent … I am afraid of letting you run around England—"

  "I am certain," Lucy replied with another firm nod.

  "But the children are eight and ten years old. The last time you were asked to take care of a group of children that age, we found the lot five miles south hanging out of apple trees."

  "I was young—"

  "It happened three months ago."

  "I promise I won't encourage the children under my charge to steal from farmers ever again—"

  "You encouraged them to steal?" Miss Summer reeled back, a hand on her scandalised heart.

  "No, I mean I simply mentioned that the farmer seemed to have had a good year and one apple each wouldn't hurt him. If birds can peck on them and ruin—"

  "Miss Trotter, you shall not steal. Not from farmers or from the kitchens. Let ants and bloody birds have it if they want."

  "Yes, Miss Summer," she replied with a heartfelt sigh.

  As expected the sigh immediately softened the old lady. "You are a good girl—talented, charming, friendly, well-liked … If only you didn't have a gap in your front teeth, you would have been considered attractive."

  Lucy pressed her lips together to hide the offending teeth.

  Miss Summer tapped the table thoughtfully, her eyes scanning a very long list in front of her. "What else? Ah yes, do not rearrange Lord Sedley's library as you did for us when you were fifteen. It is not amusing. And don't even think of wriggling down a creeper. You have an odd fear of heights. It comes on like hiccups. Most of the time you scale down the wall and sneak off to the nearest village like an experienced crook, but when the fear hits you," She shook a finger in warning, "you stop midway hanging four feet above the ground, clutching a bit of ivy, swinging to and fro with your eyes closed shivering like a furless polar bear—"

  "I will be good, Miss Summer. I truly will."

  Miss Summer pushed the list away. "Will you?" she asked sceptically. "Or rather, can you be good for an extended period, Miss Trotter? I suppose I cannot tie you to the chair you are currently warming and keep you here forever …."

  Lucy nervously shook her head.

  "It won't be easy," Miss Summer warned.

  "The world is full of dangers," Lucy agreed. "I will be careful."

  "It won't be easy," Miss Summer repeated firmly, "for the world to adjust to your presence. England will have to shift around, make space, adapt a little, stand on its toe nails and stay alert to be able to absorb someone like you … It may happen … Miracles are not unheard off."

  Lucy fixed her eye on a white speck on the table.

  Miss Summer rummaged around in her desk drawer. "Your mother's sister regretted the fact that she couldn't take you in after your parents died in the fire, but she had eleven grimy ones of her own. Here." She handed a deep red pouch to Lucy, "She left you some money. She wanted me to give it you when you were old enough. I would have preferred waiting a little longer before giving it to you, but age seems to define wisdom for some fools."

  Lucy jingled the pouch. It wasn't much but at least it was something.

  "It may be enough to buy you a dress," Miss Summer said jerking a round dimpled chin towards the pouch. "Now, for the last time, Miss Lucy Anne Trotter, are you certain you want to go to Blackwell and take care of the children in Rudhall Manor?"

  "I won't change my mind, Miss Summer."

  "Well, then, that is that."

  "Yes, that is that."

  "That is final?"

  "It is."

  "You will not be allowed back once you leave, Miss Trotter. You are aware we have responsibilities, many mouths to feed—"

  "I understand."

  "I see … This is goodbye then."

  "Yes," Lucy said in a voice thick with emotion. "Goodbye, Miss Summer." She paused near the door and looked back at her beloved teacher. "And, Miss Summer …"

  "Yes?"

  "Thank you … for everything."

  "You are welcome, child. Now repay me by behaving like a well-mannered young lady for the rest of your life."

  "I shall try my best, Miss Summer."

  "For Lord Sedley's sake, I truly hope so."

  Lucy nodded and left the room. She closed the door and leaned back against it.

  After a brief moment, one dark brown eye opened just a touch and looked right and then left.

  The corridor was empty.

  Her ears strained and twitched.

  All was silent.

  Her lips curled up at the corners, and then as if a bee stung her on the arm, she jerked and came alive. Her arms flapped, her legs hopped and skipped, her head shook from side to side, pins flew and the thick brown locks loosened and knotted themselves together.

  She did not notice when the door opened behind her and Miss Summer came out, nor did she notice when the nearest room emptied and a group of sixteen-year-olds abandoned their stitching to come and watch her.

  Nor did she stop when a distant dinner bell peeled through the orphanage because at this beautiful moment Miss Lucy Anne Trotter was busy doing the happy dance of freedom.

  Chapter 2

  Three months later …

  On the outskirts of London, wedged between Muffly and Duffly, sat an unassuming village
called Blackwell.

  And while London leaped, bounded and raced about, Blackwell village yawned, stretched and bobbed along sluggishly.

  The trees in this village swayed gloomily, the petulant birds ceased their chirping, and the clouds made their way across the sky like slow, overfed worms.

  The air held a tropical breeziness to it in spite of it being midwinter, and the river flowed along at a languid pace, gently teasing bits of floating ice to move farther down the stream.

  As for the villagers, they went about their business half asleep with drooping eyes, sagging jaws and wide unconcealed yawns that spread through the streets passed on from man to man, woman to woman and child to monkey.

  Lucy, too, had been affected by this strange lethargy that had enveloped the village. She was sitting inside the local inn, sipping a tepid cup of coffee, her head lolling to one side and her bottom tender from sitting on the hard wooden chair.

  She was in a listless mood today. Everything around her seemed stagnant and dull. Often this sort of phlegmatic atmosphere is followed by a whirlwind of action, roaring chaos and deafening storms, or at least she hoped this was the case.

  She needed a punch of excitement in her life and a swig of the old liveliness. She needed something to happen. Anything.

  You see, she would have fallen asleep considering the soporific environment but for the fact that her small pointed ears were currently being assaulted by the sounds coming from the corner where a deluded young man sat thumping away at a piano.

  He was attempting to sing a horrifying rendition of the famous ballad called 'The Princess and Her Wandering Toe' and she wished he would cease at once.

  She hoped the man would get a sudden urge to jump into his teacup and drown himself, or a tiny cloud would whizz in through the window, settle itself above the singer and proceed to rain on his head, instantly drenching him and giving him a powerful cold.

  An angel, it seemed, had been passing by over her head at that very moment, for her wish was granted and something did happen.

  A sudden gust of chilly breeze swept through the village, nipping the yawns out of man, woman, child and monkey.

  Lucy's head straightened, eyes brightened.

  The sleepy indoor air shivered awake.

  The river surged slamming the floating blocks of ice against the rocky bank until they splintered into a thousand pieces.

  A cacophony of shouts, bellows and whoops erupted on the street drowning out the young singer's tremulous voice.

  It sounded like the world was coming to an end outside the inn.

  The old, dried-up man with a porous nose sitting next to Lucy's table stopped leering at her and instead peered out of the frosted window pane that was letting in the dull grey evening light.

  He stroked his thin white moustache worriedly.

  Lucy followed his gaze and peered out of the window. She spotted an assortment of booted feet racing over shiny cobbled stones.

  A pair of big brown boots caught her eye, and she watched as it leaped into the air and clicked its heels together. Old green riding boots followed at a more reluctant pace.

  Sweet feminine legs ending in slim, delicate leather boots trailed after large handsome ones, while tiny little childish boots were being chased by sensible motherly ones.

  The language of these hurrying boots belonging to the villagers of Blackwell was mixed. Some were happy, some sad, some alarmed, while some excited. Lucy had never before realised that the lower part of the human anatomy could portray so many emotions.

  Abandoning her cup of coffee, she tentatively moved closer to the window almost afraid of what she would find.

  She stood for a moment curling and uncurling her fist around the dusty curtain of the inn in an attempt to warm her freezing hands. The crusty old innkeeper had given her a table far from the crackling fire and, in spite of being indoors for over an hour, not an inch of her skin felt warm.

  She debated joining the crowd outside to learn the reason for the chaos.

  A wintery draft sneaked in through a crack in the window, numbing her poor cold ears and reminding her of the icy gust sweeping across the street.

  She paused, undecided.

  Behind her, what had begun as a soft murmur turned into panicked squeaks. Feet shuffled, skidded and crunched over the wooden floor strewn with peanut shells as people abandoned their dinners to join the swelling crowd outside.

  The possibility of impending doom had put a spring in every step. Even the most lethargic creatures in the room became vivacious as they fled the inn with remarkable speed.

  Lucy pressed her slightly upturned nose to the icy windowpane. The pounding footsteps, the clamour inside and outside the inn, and the spirited singer banging away on the untuned piano as if possessed by some otherworldly being made it impossible for her to hear a single coherent word or see anything other than chaos.

  She slanted an annoyed look at the singer.

  The young man did not notice her lethal stare but continued his assault on the piano trying to be heard over the noise. His fingers raced over the keys, the elbows joined in and at times so did his feet.

  It was as if he wanted to make music with every part of his soul as well as every part of his body. He pounded the keys with an almost manic excitement certain that this was the end of the world.

  Soon his fingers, elbows, ears and toes were speeding over the keys faster and faster striking darts of fear in the hearts of sensitive listeners. Finally, with a crash, his head hit the keys and he lay unmoving.

  And with the end of the frightening song, Lucy became aware of the silence.

  The noise had died away leaving whispers in its wake.

  The lane outside was quiet with only a few stragglers rapidly walking towards the square every now and then.

  She turned her head to find the inn empty apart from the gently snoring singer.

  Plates of steaming food, ale, breads and pastries lay abandoned on tables. A wine glass had been knocked over, the dark liquid snaking its way across the grooves in the wooden table. No one was around to clean it.

  Even the owner seemed to have disappeared.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Lucy snatched the bread off her table, grabbed a chicken leg off an untouched plate and raced outside.

  She caught up with the villagers easily and, pulling up the hood of her thin woollen coat, merged in with the crowd.

  She moved along with the chattering bodies towards the square.

  Speculation was rife in the air with some whispering about a fire, while the more positive ones hoped that the mad dash was for something more exciting … like free cheese being provided by the demented king.

  Lucy stopped listening to the debate around her and started walking faster. The cold, wet mud had soaked her boots and seeped in through the cracks in the leather to dampen her stockings.

  If she dawdled any longer, she was afraid her toes would freeze and fall off.

  It wasn't long before she spotted the tall wooden spike that marked the centre of the village square.

  Her heart started thundering in fear while her teeth furiously worked on the chicken leg as she joined the villagers, a dog, six cats, some sheep and a cow swarming towards the middle of the square.

  She wondered what she was going to find.…

  Chapter 3

  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 d
eserted 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.