The Mystery of the Black Widow ~ A Gay Victorian Romance and Erotic Novella

by Lady T L Jennings

  Stop being ridiculous, I told myself and tried to force myself to breathe normally. There is nothing to be afraid of!

  I had not wanted to admit it to the gamekeeper, but the fact was that I was rather claustrophobic, and the thought of being locked in, in a confined space, did not agree with me in the least; however, I understood that he must have received orders not to let anyone wander around in the house unaccompanied. To distract myself, I began to sort through the documents in front of me with slightly shaking hands, and soon I had managed to lose myself in my work.

  Lord Lydford had kept neat and well-organised account books of all the expenses of the manor, and I soon found the documents I needed regarding the property and surrounding grounds, including the tenancies, which I began to match up with the copy of the file that Mr Powell had given me before I left London.

  It quickly occurred to me that Lord Lydford had been more than wealthy. Lydford Hall was surrounded by large grounds and had been in the family for generations. Tin mining and tenant rent had formed the basis of the Lydfords’ wealth, but Lord Lydford had followed the time of the industrialisation revolution, and more recent affairs, including the making of black powder, had during the last ten years increased the family fortune significantly, especially since Lord Lydford had shares in the Plymouth and Dartmoor Gunpowder Company and was the co-owner of a powder mill at Cherrybrook Farm, located a few miles away.

  I raised my eyebrow when I double-checked the value of Lord Lydford’s shares. Clearly gunpowder was a quite lucrative business, and although Lord Lydford seemed to have been old-fashioned regarding the estate, it was quite apparent that when it came to business, he had been a very forward-thinking man. On the other hand, he had also kept the tenancy fees quite high, and the staff salaries were almost unreasonably low, I noticed as my finger slowly traced the name of Christopher Morgan, gamekeeper, and then his yearly allowance written in black ink in the bookkeeping journal.

  *

  For several hours I worked hard, engrossed in endless numbers, tables, and tallies, and I did not notice that the fire slowly burned down low or that time quietly went past. It was not until my stomach began to rumble and reminded me that I had had neither breakfast nor a break for several hours, which brought me back to the present. With a small groan I rose from the desk and gently rolled my stiff shoulders. I added a couple of logs to the fire and, standing in front of the fireplace, ate the packed lunch that Morgan had left for me despite my protests.

  At first, when I heard the strange noise, I thought it was just the dry wood creaking in the fire, and I reached for the black iron poker to turn the logs. It took me a moment before the realisation slowly sank in: the noise that I heard did not come from the fire–but seemed to come from inside the wall itself!

  All the blood drained from my face as my mind desperately tried to come up with a rational explanation.

  The creaking sound came again, louder and closer this time! I leaned forward and hesitantly placed my ear against the wall.

  It could be a rat, I tried nervously to convince myself without much success. Perhaps it is scurrying along a hidden servants’ corridor behind the wall?

  Lots of older buildings had narrow corridors and staircases to keep the servants and staff as invisible as possible to the owners. But the noise did not sound like the soft scurrying of furry feet. It was a dry, spooky kind of sound, I noticed and leaned closer.

  It sounds almost like someone is struggling to take a ragged breath. The thought sent a sudden chill down my back, and I felt cold sweat starting to form at my temples. The fact that I was locked in did nothing to calm me down, and suddenly it felt like the high ceiling was slowly creeping closer and falling in over me. I had always hated enclosed and locked places ever since I had managed to lock myself inside a linen chest by mistake when I was a child during a game of hide-and-seek at a boarding school that I was attending in Norwich when I was young.

  I am sure there is a perfectly logical explanation, I thought nervously when suddenly the noise increased! With a rapidly beating heart, I took a quick step back.

  A rustling noise was heard from the fireplace followed by a loud ruckus when a large piece of solid soot together with numerous sticks and thin dead branches rushed down the chimney into the fire with a deafening whoosh! The air was instantly filled with thick smoke, black soot, and burning embers. The fire died out almost immediately, smothered underneath the solid soot and debris from the chimney. My eyes stung and filled up with tears and I began to cough. Quickly I covered my mouth and nose with a cotton pocket handkerchief while I struggled to take off my jacket and used it to rapidly beat out the burning embers that had landed on the dusty, blue carpet with an intricate oriental pattern before it had time to burn into the fabric and start a fire in the room.

  Struggling to draw breath, I managed at last to put out the escaped embers with my jacket and stamped out the last of the fire. Half-blinded by smoke, I stumbled towards the windows, trying in vain to open the shutters, but they had been firmly closed and locked by an overzealous maid. On the brink of mindless panic, I pushed the iron poker violently in between the wooden shutters and tried to bend them open using brute force. Desperation made me strong, and the lock gave away unexpectedly, and I nearly fell backwards before I pushed the shutters and high windows open, frantic for fresh air.

  A blessed, cool wind swept through the room, and a couple of documents became airborne in the sudden draft. I coughed helplessly for several minutes before I dried the tears from my eyes and closed the window again. While I was thoroughly thankful for the fresh air, I was concerned that the unpredictable wind would suddenly catch all of my papers and thus render the entire day’s work useless.

  A new set of coughing fits shook my body as I started to gather the documents from the floor. Coughing deeply and nearly unable to breathe, I reached after one of the two crystal decanters and poured an inch of golden-coloured whiskey into one of the heavy glasses next to the decanters and quickly drank it down.

  Desperate times call for desperate measures, is that not what they say? I thought, a little bit guilty that I had provided myself with someone else’s whiskey without permission. On the other hand, I probably prevented the entire house from burning down, so perhaps we are even? I contemplated.

  The alcohol burned my sensitive lips, but at the same time it also spread a welcoming warmth in my sore chest and immediately soothed my irritated, dry throat. I am not familiar with different types of whiskeys, as I rarely drank myself, but I vaguely recognised it as a strong and most likely at least a decade-old malt whiskey, which tasted rather good and probably had been quite expensive.

  As I bent down to get the final paper, I noticed a corner of a document that had slipped down underneath the narrow space between one of the bookcases and the floor. I picked it up. At first I mistook it for my own papers, but when I took a closer look, I noticed that it was a letter. The envelope had a red wax seal embedded with the Lydford family crest with a prancing stag and lion, which was still intact. I turned it over and recognised the name on the front of the envelope as Lord Lydford’s previous attorney in Tavistock, one of the larger towns nearby. I hesitated briefly before I broke the seal wax and opened the letter. As it was addressed to an attorney, and because its content most certainly had to do with legal matters, I thought it was better if I opened the letter, although it was not addressed to me personally.

  In retrospect, I must say that I find it strange how such a small and seemingly trivial action may later lead to enormously large consequences, and as I reached for the silver letter opener by the inkstand, I had no idea that my life would never be the same again.

  *

  ~ Chapter Six ~

  How utterly peculiar, I thought with a frown.

  The contents of the letter surprised me vastly. Because in my hand I held a second legal and personal will signed by Lord Lydford himself.

  It is dated just a couple of days b
efore he died, I noticed and mulled it over while I emptied the glass of the last of the whiskey. What an odd coincidence…

  I quickly read through the paper. It seemed legitimate and correct; however, the legal will left all of Lord Lydford’s rather extensive personal fortune to one single person, namely a Sarah Lydford, née Barnes.

  Sarah Lydford? I thought, my head a little bit clouded by the strong liquor. Who is that? Lord Lydford did not have any sisters, and his wife, Lady Lydford, was called Henrietta Lydford. Suddenly I felt all the hair at the back of my neck rise, and a rush of goosebumps formed along my shoulders, as if someone had unexpectedly placed their ice-cold hands at the nape of my neck, as my mind came up with the answer. I did not know who Sarah Lydford was, but Sarah Barnes was the name of the housemaid who committed suicide!

  Why on earth would Lord Lydford leave everything to one of his maids? I glanced at the certificate again.

  “But she was not just a simple housemaid, now was she?” I whispered to myself as realisation dawned on me.

  Because according to the paper I held in my hand, Sarah Barnes had been Lord Lydford’s wife. Which meant that either Lord Lydford had divorced Lady Lydford, remarried and told no one about it, or Lord Lydford was guilty of bigamy, a serious offence, and then, of course, both his marriage and legal will were certainly not valid. However, no one had mentioned that he was divorced, and that was not the impression that I had received from the innkeeper and his wife or from the gamekeeper. The law had recently changed, and getting a divorce was possible, although extremely costly and very rare.

  Could the document be a forgery? I wondered and inspected the will closer. It looked authentic enough, and the wax seal had been unbroken.

  But how would I know the truth? I wondered with a sigh. It does not make any sense…

  I sat down on the uncomfortable high chair by the massive desk and began to sort through the documents. I needed more information. A sudden thought sneaked up on me, like a dark message.

  Lord Lydford had a title and had been incredibly rich. Could he have been… murdered? I thought slowly, and for the second time that day it felt like someone had walked across my grave and I shivered. And in that case, was it just a coincidence that Lord Lydford’s brother, James, had died almost during the same time?

  I pressed my fingertips against each other, thinking hard. Perhaps there was more to the story than I knew. It certainly did not feel like I had all the pieces of the puzzle, and I did not even know exactly how Lord Lydford had died.

  I frowned.

  Lord Lydford did not have any heirs, so Lydford Hall and his title would have been inherited by his brother, James Lydford, while his private fortune would have been–according to the first legal will–been divided between his brother and his wife.

  On the other hand, there are other reasons for murder than money, I thought slowly. Perhaps the housemaid had tried to blackmail Lord Lydford and, when that failed, hanged herself? Or there had been a jealous and murder-prone lover involved somehow? Or maybe some of the servants were sick and tired of being ill-treated and underpaid?

  Although, to be fair, I do not know anything about Lord Lydford or how he treated his servants, I corrected myself mentally and realised that I had let my imagination run away with me again. In fact, I did not even know if the new-found will was legal or not.

  Clearly I need to investigate this further. And there is no harm in asking questions, I concluded.

  I should, of course, have known better…

  If Lord Lydford had indeed divorced and somehow managed to keep it a secret, it would still have cost him a great deal of money, I reasoned.

  It must have been accounted for somewhere in his immaculate bookkeeping, I thought. The problem was, of course, that I did not know when–or if–a divorce had taken place, and I sincerely doubted that it would have been noted down as ‘divorce fee’ in the books. Therefore, I began to go through all documents systematically that had to do with expenses of any kind, as well as sorting through his correspondence with the attorney in Tavistock, while I penned down everything suspicious that I found on a piece of paper.

  *

  Deeply focused on my work, I did not hear the approaching footsteps in the corridor outside. It was not until the key turned sharply in the lock that I was suddenly aware that someone was there, and I flinched in surprise and made a dreadful ink blot on my paper, which I tried to rub out with the side of my hand, but only managed to stain my fingers with black ink. I fidgeted nervously with the paper as the door opened. My heart sank together with my weak moral sense into the abyss when the gamekeeper entered the library.

  He must have worked outdoors the entire day, I thought and felt my mouth go dry, because the wind had ruffled his chestnut brown hair, which made him look rough and a little weather-beaten, which I found hard to resist. A mental image of him chopping wood with a long, sharp axe–bare-chested and a little bit sweaty, if you do not mind–entered my mind quickly and unbidden, and I promptly quelled the wicked and irrational fantasy before it had time to fester in my mind.

  “I… I did not expect you back so early,” I said and tried to keep my voice steady.

  “It is three o’clock,” Morgan replied, with a slightly arched eyebrow.

  “Oh,” I said and checked the time on my pocket watch. “Indeed it is.”

  I felt myself blush slightly, which was not entirely because of my mistake, but more a result of the other man’s presence.

  “What has happened here?” he asked in surprise when he noticed the soot-covered carpet and the broken window shutters.

  “Ah. Well,” I replied and cleared my throat, “I think perhaps it might be time to let the chimney sweeps come and do their work.”

  I quickly explained that a large piece of soot had fallen down in the fire together with a large amount of sticks, and that I had been forced to break down the lock to the shutters to open the windows.

  “Good grief! Are you all right?” Morgan asked in a concerned tone when he had heard my whole story. “It could have killed you.”

  “I am perfectly fine,” I replied lightly, although to be perfectly honest I had, in fact, felt somewhat under the weather for the better part of the afternoon. “It was nothing.”

  “Are you sure?” he said and took a step towards me. “Inhaling smoke and nearly suffocating can be very dangerous. Several tin miners have died during the last couple of years after being exposed to heavy smoke down in the mines.”

  “I am absolutely fine, Mr Morgan, I assure you,” I lied heartily and hastily drew back, afraid that he would reach out and touch me. “I say, I have never been better!”

  He hesitated and then walked over to the fireplace instead and bent down to inspect the dead sticks and large piece of soot. I followed after him.

  “I suppose it could have been the crows,” Morgan said slowly and looked up at me. “They might have been trying to build a nest on top of the roof and dropped sticks and branches down the chimney hole.”

  “Yes, perhaps,” I agreed uncertainly. “Anyway, I am more or less finished for the day. I will bring some documents with me and continue my work at the inn.”

  “You… you cannot do that, I am afraid,” he told me.

  “I beg your pardon?” I arched an eyebrow.

  “Lady Lydford has instructed me that no files or documents are to leave the manor.”

  “But why?”

  He shrugged. “I do not know.”

  “Hmm. Well, in that case, I shall only bring my own files back with me.” I frowned and wondered silently if he had been entirely truthful with me or if Lady Lydford had a slight paranoid side to her. “It is, however, rather vexing. I could have got more work done otherwise.”

  “I am sorry, it is what Her Ladyship told me,” he replied.

  “Of course,” I said and made a mental note that he seemed very obliging to his employers.

  Since Morgan was watching me,
I had no choice but to leave all of Lord Lydford’s accounting books and documents on the massive desk; however, as I gathered my own papers and folders, I deftly slipped the second legal will that I had found into the pile without thinking before I put the documents in my leather briefcase. I do not think that he noticed what I had done, because he did not mention it. I wanted to read through the will again carefully in peace and quiet, to ensure I had not missed anything important. Until I had figured out the whole truth, I had decided to keep the new-found legal will secret, and I did not like the idea of leaving it up at the manor. Although the place was unoccupied, one could never know.

  It is always better to be safe than sorry, I thought and wished that I had applied that proverb to all of my conducts in the past.

  *

  ~ Chapter Seven ~

  The return trip to the inn went quicker than the drive up to Lydford Hall the same morning, and the sturdy workhorse trotted surefootedly along the muddy and uneven road down the steep hill and past the small, unmarked grave by the crossroads. It had stopped raining during the day, but with the late afternoon a dense evening mist was slowly forming in the dales below.

  “So how long have you worked at Lydford Hall?” I asked Morgan to break the silence between us.

  “Since I was a young lad. My father was the gamekeeper before me,” he replied and went on to talk about his duties, which mainly seemed to include outdoor activities such as keeping poachers away from the grounds, keeping vermin in check, and inspecting the levels of wild game birds and beasts, as well as the numbers of trout in the nearby stream.

  I politely added a question or two every now and then, mostly because I secretly enjoyed listening to his voice. At the end of the cold drive I felt that the trip had seemed to have gone too quickly for my liking, which I told myself had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I liked his company or that on a couple of occasions, when the carriage had hit a bump in the uneven road, our knees had unexpectedly brushed against each other. I always avoided body contact of all kinds, and therefore I was not used to it at all anymore. However, while the short and feather-light touches between us were unintentional, I could not with clear conscious claim that they were innocent. In fact, for my part, I have to admit, the light touching was regrettably enough to send small electrical shocks of tempting, forbidden desire that made me ache for more. With hopeless accuracy I knew that the experience, however alluring and pleasant at the present, would haunt me later that night.