by Matt Drabble
Sir Ransom Winchester had been a titan of industry and a man with every connection possible. He took what he wanted when he wanted it, and when death had finally arrived to take him at the age of 102 he had not gone quietly into the night. Instead, he had kicked and raged on against his own mortality, dragging his death out for what seemed like an eternity instead of fading gently away.
Not possessing the correct chromosomes, she had been of little interest to her father and he had largely left her alone, especially after her diagnosis. She had ceased to be of any use to him. As a result, her days had been quiet and draped in the shadows beyond her father’s sight. He cared little for her as a person or even an entity. She knew nothing about the family business that bore her surname and it was made very clear from an early age that she had no place at her father’s table.
When death had finally taken the great man, she had wandered the halls of Crowtree Manor alone and empty. She had wanted to feel grief at her father’s passing but in truth she had not known the man other than the great portraits that hung on the walls of their ancestral home. There had been a procession of lawyers and various business suited men who produced clipboards and papers for her to sign; her hand had ached before the week was through. It had turned out that whilst Sir Ransom Winchester had not seen fit to bestow his business empire upon her slender shoulders, but he had done his duty to provide her with a lifestyle that befit a Winchester. She had been left the Winchester home, along with a bank account balance that contained more zeros than she thought possible. She had entered the UK’s top 100 richest people overnight and without lifting a finger. She felt guilt for the vast wealth but she also knew that she had little in the way of skills to make her own mark on the world. She had been home schooled by the finest tutors that money could buy and although her father had seemed like he wasn’t interested in having her close, for some reason did not want her sent away to school either. Her mind was sharp and she had plenty of text book learning skills but her world was contained within the confines of her ancient home and she knew nothing of life beyond.
Terrence Donavon had come at her just right, she now knew. The man had preyed upon her with the expert marksmanship of a prime hunter. He played his part just right, filling the void where her father should have stood. He was wise and worldly, he knew of foreign shores and different cultures, paradises that she had only ever seen in books. He had been softly spoken and ruggedly handsome, a mature man in his late thirties with hair tempered steely grey and experience creases around his kind eyes.
He had come to her soliciting funds for a children’s charity in Africa. A tale of woe that had pricked at her conscience as she’d entertained him in Crowtree Manor’s large opulent dining hall. As he’d spoke of the avoidable and needless deaths of small infants due to poverty, she couldn’t help but wonder just how much good could be done with just a single piece of art that adorned the tables and cabinets around them. Her father had been an avid collector with expensive tastes and had evolved from a boy from a poor background into a man determined to show how far he’d crawled from the gutter.
Terrence had set about wooing her without her even realizing it as she was so unaccustomed to the dance that she had been waltzing before she’d known what was happening. He had been her only experience with men and he had known exactly what buttons to push as though he had studied her with great intensity and planning, which of course was exactly what he had turned out to be doing.
They had been married in a whirlwind of flowers and doves and she had been well and truly swept off her feet. She had happily signed whatever paperwork that he asked her to, always eager to please him and not minding the occasional backhanded slap as she was sure, despite her nonexistent experience, that all women were treated in such a manner from time to time.
They had been married for almost 8 months when the bell system that serviced Crowtree Manor had rung out shrilly above the great doors. Terrence had been away on business and she had learnt a while ago that he didn’t like to be asked about his plans; like most of his lessons it had been a painful one.
She had hurried to the doors and heaved them open. Terrence had dismissed most of the staff to her silent displeasure. He’d said that they were an unaffordable luxury and she had wanted to ask about their finances but hadn’t quite dared. Since the wedding, Terrence had taken charge of her money as soon as it had become “their” money. She didn’t mind as she had little head for the financial side of her father’s legacy but lately Terrence had become increasingly frugal with their expenses despite her wealth.
Standing under the enormous shadow of the great doors had stood a woman dominating the shadow’s dim light. The woman looked a little older than her but she positively glowed with a burning radiance. She wore a bright yellow dress that looked like it was made of pure sunshine and clung across her generous chest, straining to contain the dangerous curves within. Monica had stared at the woman for a little too long, wondering if this was what movie stars looked like up close. “Hello?” she finally managed. “Can I help you?”
“That depends,” the woman had purred, crushing a cigarette beneath a sharply pointed heel.
“Well, I’m Mrs. Donovan,” Monica had said timidly.
“Well I hate to be the one to tell you this sweetheart,” the woman had said, taking off her large sunglasses and staring at her hard, “but that makes two of us.”
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Eventually, they managed to shove the heavy trunk into the river and they both fell back, exhausted by the effort. Monica watched on as the trunk started to sink away into the black water. Her mind was still reeling at what they had done, but Geraldine had been right when she’d told her that it was too late now for second guesses.
After the vivacious other Mrs. Winchester had shown up on her doorstep, it was a little scary to think just how far things had progressed and how quickly.
Geraldine had told her tale of Terrence’s relentless and expert pursuit, hunting her with a predator’s precision. Geraldine was a woman who’d had to grow up fast with an abusive stepfather who thought that marrying her mother gave him extra rights to enter her bedroom whenever he felt the urge to. She had left home as soon as her mother had made it clear that she was more interested in keeping her husband than her daughter. From then on, her story was depressingly predictable and straight from the melodramatic pages of a soap opera script. Substance abuse, to numb the pain of her existence, inevitably led to dubious ways to earn money for her habit. Terrence had been her white knight, the older father figure to seep her up from the gutter with promises of wealth and security. They’d married in a quiet ceremony with only the registrar and a couple of strangers to act as witnesses. Monica had often wondered about Terrence’s long absences that he blamed on vague business commitments; she often wondered but had never quite found the voice with which to ask. Geraldine had given the man every inch of her in every way that he had demanded until his temper had manifested itself in physical form. She had told her that he had always been secretive about their finances and Monica could sympathize with that. Eventually, Terrence had drunkenly confessed to them being ruined; he had apparently poured a fortune into investments that were far above his head and had been fleeced for his arrogance. He was broke, which meant that Geraldine was broke and by proxy so was Monica.
Geraldine had shown her a mountain of paperwork: mortgage statements, bank records and even their marriage license in proof. She’d told her that Terrence still had a plan; he was a man who always had a plan. He’d confessed to marrying Monica but swore blind that it was only for the money, promising that he had married Geraldine for love.
Monica had taken all the information in with an acceptance born of zero confidence and self-esteem. She’d had a lifetime of feeling useless and unworthy so it came as no surprise that the man who came to save her had only succeeded in betraying her.
It had been Geraldine who had come up with the idea of killing him. According to her, Terrence had
spoken of selling Crowtree Manor but that he knew that Monica would never agree in a million years. The ancestral home was worth a fortune and he was convinced that he would not lose a second fortune. Terrence had suggested that he and Geraldine make Monica’s death look like a suicide; she was a quiet loner with few friends and no one to miss her. Geraldine had agreed with the plan to him but in reality had formed her own. She professed no great love for Terrence and saw him only as a means to an end and without money she saw him as no longer necessary. She had told Monica that it was high time they started looking after themselves.
Once Geraldine had decided the course of action, Monica had attacked the problem with a studious dedication. A long buried anger had awoken in her at the men in her limited life and their betrayal. Her father had seen her as worthless and Terrence even more so.
She had read everything possible about murder and detection, devouring book upon book of procedures, real life investigations and the mistakes that brought killers down. As far as she was concerned, it was essential to keep things as simple as possible; the more complicated you made it, the more possibility for mistakes.
There was a river a few miles east of the manor, a long sweeping stretch of water that held a strong current and eventually reached the ocean. She used several large containers to collect water from the river, enough to fill a bathtub with. When he drowned his lungs couldn’t be filled with fragranced bath water instead of the river. Terrence was a man who enjoyed a long soak in a hot bath after a hard day’s work of lying to his wives. He used sleeping tablets at night but Monica found it hard to believe that he had any sort of a guilty conscience. She ground up and mixed the powder from several tablets into a large glass of expensive scotch, handing it to him when he arrived home late on Friday night.
“Now this is how the lord of the manor should be greeted,” he grinned, throwing his wet coat onto the floor.
Despite everything, she had once loved him or at least what she thought had been love. It was a difficult subject when she had zero experience. However, there was a small birth of hatred there now but it was in equal measures for him and for herself. She had tried to be a good wife and fulfill her duties but his touch was, more often than not, rough and his mouth coarse. There were times when he seemed to revel in her discomfort and in the books and on TV that wasn’t supposed to be how love was shown.
He’d slurped back his drink in one long gulping swallow and then grabbed her roughly. She’d felt nothing but disgust for his thick tongue as it forced itself into her mouth, and he had soon been squirming against her. She hoped and prayed that she wouldn’t be cursed forever for once desiring such filth as this. If she was then it would be a life of chastity.
Afterwards, she had rearranged her clothes as he had lain on the floor of the hallway unashamed of his nakedness, staring up at her with a predatory hunger in his gleaming eyes.
“I’ll draw you a bath,” she’d said meekly.
“Wonderful,” he’d grinned, stretching like a cat.
She’d filled the bath upstairs using the collected river water as when he drowned she didn’t want his lungs to be full of domestic bathwater that could potentially be traced back to her. She knew that trying to figure out what level of sedation to apply would be tricky. Too much and she could knock him out cold and be unable to get him upstairs; too little and he wouldn’t be under far enough and still able to put up a fight.
She’d let Geraldine in through the back door and the woman was waiting as she headed upstairs to fill the bath, in case she needed an extra pair of hands to carry him.
“What was that?” Geraldine had demanded with flashing eyes.
“Shush, he might here you,” Monica had said, flapping her hands for quiet.
“I had to stand here and watch you screwing him on the parquet floor. You didn’t exactly look like a woman who wanted to go through with this. Oh shit, what is this, some kind of double cross?”
“Of course not,” Monica had enthused, blushing furiously. “Look, I just wanted him worn out; the bath is ready, we just have to get him up there.”
“Darling?” his voice slurred from beneath them. Geraldine instinctively ducked back into the shadows.
“I thought you said he’d be out by now?” Geraldine hissed.
Monica turned in horror as Terrence started to climb the stairs behind them, each foot hovering unsteadily on each wooden step as he concentrated intently.
“I don’t feel so good,” he’d mumbled.
“Just tired I’d expect, dear,” Monica had called out warmly. “A hot bath and off to bed for you.”
“Sounds good. How about we skip the bath part?”
She’d moved quickly out of reach as he stumbled towards her. In the shadows, she could just make out Geraldine and felt the woman’s anger. If Terrence had turned at that instant then the whole plan would have been ruined in a flash. Instead, she stepped to him and put a supporting arm across his back as he sank against her.
The trip to the bathroom was a short one but took an age as he kept on trying to slump to the floor and he was so much heavier than her. But eventually she’d got him all the way there and had started to think that perhaps she had judged the medication just right. He was as weak as a kitten and almost unconscious.
With one final effort, she’d lifted him onto the edge of the long cast iron bath facing her. He sat there as she held onto him. The plan was to undress him before he went in but she had then seen that it would be near impossible. She’d let go with one hand in order to undo his shirt and he’d slipped from her tight grasp.
He fell backwards into the water, splashing the brown liquid over the edges of the bath. The moment that his face had been submerged in the cold stagnant water, he had suddenly burst into life again. She’d tried to push him backwards but he’d kept struggling to sit up. His feet had kicked out violently, catching her painfully several times as water splashed up in the air, soaking her through like she was trying to bathe an uncooperative dog.
His eyes had cleared slightly and they seemed to see her and comprehend. “What are you doing?” he’d slurred. “Let me go you bitch.”
In that instant she’d known that he was going to get free; despite her best efforts he was going to burst free of her struggling grip. Her breath started to shorten and she struggled to breathe properly as her weak heart struggled with the sudden rush of adrenaline coursing through her veins.
Then Geraldine had come screaming into the room. She had been shrieking various obscenities that Monica hadn’t been able to make out. Geraldine had flung herself down on top of Terrence and into the bath, sending a large wave over the side. Monica had added her own weight to the party and together they’d forced his head down and under the remaining water.
Looking back, she had to admit to feeling a strange thrill as she and Geraldine had been wrapped tightly around each other, pressing Terrence down under the water. She had been acutely aware of the other woman’s soft contours and shapely figure as they grinded themselves down on Terrence.
They had stayed wrapped in each other’s embrace until the very last of his air bubbles had popped on the surface, shuddering with the cold of the water and the realisation of what they’d done.
When they’d finally climbed up and off, Monica had looked down into the eyes of her husband. They had been wide open and full of terror; it was a sight that she knew would haunt her for the rest of her life.
She’d been staring down transfixed by him when Geraldine had had to shake and slap her back into the present. Eventually, when she was not getting enough of a response, Geraldine had kissed her fiercely and Monica had found herself squirming in a passionate response.
“We have to move now,” Geraldine had said, pulling away breathlessly.
Monica had moved in for another kiss, eager to explore these confusing feelings but Geraldine had held her firmly at arm’s length. “Later,” she’d insisted. “There’ll be time for everything later. Right now we have to mov
e.”
Monica had been dimly aware that she was replacing one domineering figure for another but she was just glad to not be in charge of the situation.
They’d managed to lift him up and out of the bath. Every second that passed, Monica had expected Terrence to suddenly spring back into life and launch himself at them with murderous vengeance, but he never did.
They struggled with his weight, which had by then been augmented by his death, to get him inside the old steamer trunk that Monica had found in the attic of the manor. The night had closed in around them and together they dragged the heavy case down the stairs and out the back to Geraldine’s parked car. Together, they’d lifted one end of the trunk up onto the back of the 4x4 with the tailgate lowered. They put their backs onto the other end and heaved it up and in.
They travelled in silence to the river as the adrenaline wore off and their muscles started to ache. Monica started to feel the icy tentacles of fear tickling at the nape of her neck as realisation dawned. They had killed a man and his body was currently stuffed into a trunk in the back of the car.
The winter weather was typically wet and cold and Monica had kept on expecting to see a police diversion around every corner, a checkpoint where some inquisitive cop would start poking around the car after he’d pulled them over but the journey was uneventful and they’d reached the riverbank unimpaired.
Monica had picked out a secluded spot and guided Geraldine to it where they’d unloaded their cargo.
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The trunk at last started to sink as they sat panting in the mud, willing it to go down faster. Monica stared hard at the blue leather as though by simply doing so it would cooperate and fall beneath the black water quicker. She had the strangest sensation that they were being watched and quickly looked around nervously but couldn’t see anyone else in the dim light. The riverbank stretched far and wide, with multiple hiding places under the dark foliage.