Murder At Rudhall Manor

by Anya Wylde

  But as the moon climbed higher in the sky, her limbs would relax and contract around her just as they had done now.

  She slept deeply and diagonally, confident that after such an eventful day, the dark night had brought her peace for the moment. She had plucked all her worries out of her bosom and kept them on the side table.

  Surely nothing more could go wrong.

  The grandfather clock in the hallway struck three, and a chill snaked its way into Lucy's room and loomed large over her bed.

  The pink in Lucy's cheeks faded slowly, turning white tinged with blue. The warm quilt covering her shoulders turned icy, making her shiver in her sleep and curl up into a foetal position.

  Next, a breeze trickled into the room. A soft, gentle and eerie breeze that rustled the drapes hanging around the window.

  The unlit wood in the fireplace turned colder.

  Soon the quilt started sliding down her shoulders.

  Lucy pulled it back up with a grumble and turned over.

  The quilt once again wriggled out of her grip, scuttled down her body and pooled at her feet, where it sat like the present King of England, doing nothing whatsoever.

  Next, it was the pillow's turn to behave oddly … It twitched … and then … it twitched again.

  The twitching pillow acted like a flame and the cold eerie breeze became the moth as it abandoned the curtains. The breeze rushed towards the pillow and the pillow twitched even harder.

  They met near the centre of the large bed and leaped into each other's arms like two long lost lovers reuniting for the first time.

  The breeze was overwhelmed with love, so much so that it decided to wriggle inside the pillow cover in order to be as close to the goose feather stuffing as possible.

  The pillow shuddered and blushed, and the breeze giggled as it playfully began expanding and deflating inside the cover.

  The feathery bit of the pillow twitched passionately while the covers rose up and fell down, rose up and fell down, rose up and fell down….

  "Wake up, Miss Trotter. This game is becoming boring."

  The voice penetrated Lucy's sleepy ears and she came awake. At once, she felt the cold. She shivered and reached for the quilt.

  "Ah, you are awake."

  Lucy stilled.

  "Your heart will now beat faster, your hair will stand on one end, and you must already be feeling the chill."

  Lucy turned towards the voice. Her mouth fell open in horror and her hair really did stand straight up.

  Every single strand on her body was now facing the ceiling.

  Standing before her was a tall, middle-aged woman illuminated by a fat beam of moonlight streaming in through the window. An old-fashioned cream and gold ball gown hung loosely from her bony shoulders while a towering powdered wig sprang majestically from her small, pointed head. Butterflies, ribbons and pearls adorned the wig, and a gold pin glittered on her corset.

  Lucy gulped. The fact that a strange woman was in her room was odd, but what was odder still was the fact that the woman was shimmering and moving like a reflection in gently rippling river. Her sharp, narrow features were awfully hard to focus on.

  She was also hovering four feet above the ground.

  "You won't be able to scream," the woman said, sitting down in mid-air and primly crossing her ankles, "because you are too frightened. You see, what you are feeling are the classic symptoms produced in a human being when in close vicinity of a ghost."

  "Who ar-rre you?" Lucy stammered. She had decided she was dreaming. Only a dream could explain such things.

  "Ah, so you can hear me. Wonderful. And as for who I am, didn't I just say you were feeling things that one feels when in the presence of a ghost? Girls can be so witless," she said eyeing Lucy like she was a rotten lemon.

  "You are a ghost?" Lucy was feeling slightly braver. This was a curious sort of dream.

  "Yes, I am a spirit, a ghost, once a human, and now a dead sort of thing," the woman replied as if this entire conversation was very dull and every moment was making her more and more impatient. "There is a debate, though, going on in the ghostly realm where women are demanding that females ghosts be honourably called ghostee, ghostie or ghosty … They sound the same but are spelled differently. You see the females in the human realm are often called girls, ladies, women … You get my drift?"

  Lucy nodded.

  "So, then, why are all ghosts called ghosts and all spirits known as simply spirits and not spirities or spiritoos and so on and so forth? Some female ghosts are pleased that everyone is treated equally in the afterlife, but some are uncomfortable with the sudden change."

  Lucy nodded again. "What's it like being dead?" she asked and pulled the quilt farther up her shoulders.

  The quilt slid back down.

  She yanked it back up.

  It slipped through her fingers and began shrinking away from her shoulders.

  She gripped the edge firmly and held it near her neck.

  The unruly quilt decided to recede from her toes this time. It climbed higher and higher until her legs were left bare and cold.

  Annoyed, she forcefully tucked the quilt under her ankles and clutched the top bit with her fingers and held it still until the thick yellow cloth became exhausted and lay limp like any well behaved quilt ideally should.

  "It's like being alive except you can't breathe or eat," the ghost replied taking off her wig and scratching her head.

  "Why are you here?"

  "Because I want to be."

  "No, I mean here in my room."

  "Oh." The ghost floated closer. Lucy shrank back. "I am glad you reminded me. Well, you see, I am offended. My feelings have been hurt as I have been unjustly accused of murdering Roo Roo. Why would I murder my own dear beloved brother? I need you to find the killer and prove my innocence—"

  "Wait a moment," Lucy said. "Who is Roo Roo?"

  "Why, Robert is Roo Roo. My brother." The ghost clucked impatiently. "Lord Robert Archibald Cuthbert Sedley, who died a few hours ago. I did implore him to haunt the castle with me, but he was always the adventurous sort." She chuckled fondly. "Wanted to see what else was on offer. The silly dear."

  "You are Aunt Sedley?" Lucy asked, her eyes widening. "You really exist? You truly moan and groan at all hours of the night? It wasn't just a tale made up after the valet's arrival?"

  "Don't be silly. I have been roaming these halls since my violent and tragic death ten years ago. I didn't feel the need to frighten anyone, but when that horrible Margaret started being naughty with the handsome valet, I thought it was time to appear and do what little I could to keep them apart."

  Lucy flattened the frightened hair on her head and asked bravely, "You didn't kill him, did you?"

  "Kill Roo Roo? I would rather off his wife," Aunt Sedley said miffed. She reached over and poked Lucy in the shoulder. The action terrified Lucy but didn't hurt her for the finger went right through her shoulder. "How am I supposed to kill anyone when I can't touch a single human being?"

  Lucy shifted farther away from the fluttering ghost. "You moved the quilt."

  "I didn't move the quilt. The quilt and the pillow moved on its own. It's in our constitution that no spirit may harm any human being, but a spirit may frighten to their heart's content."

  "I see," Lucy said looking confounded.

  "After we are dead, to compensate for the fact that we cannot eat or drink ever again, we are given certain gifts. Our presence invokes all sorts of terrifying things. Whenever I walk into the room drapes rustle, quilts and pillows act oddly, and sometimes the wind howls."

  "Oh."

  "Now, a man who loves his rum and has been forced to give it up because he has inconveniently died … well, for him the urge to drink is strong even after death, and that is difficult. Very difficult. To compensate for his hardship he is given some added benefits. He can produce orbs of light to distract himself from dreams of gin and rum, or create trails of blood. The pictures some of these ghosts draw
with the blood … sheer brilliance."

  "So all ghosts are different," Lucy interrupted. Her eyes had started drooping and she covered a yawn.

  Aunt Sedley narrowed her eyes at the yawn. "I will return at another time for the report."

  "Report?"

  "Report on your progress. You do recall I asked you to investigate the murder for me … don't you?"

  "Ah, yes." Lucy stifled another yawn.

  "I am going now."

  "Wait, why me," Lucy asked.

  "Why you what?"

  "Why did you choose me for the investigation?"

  "Because you are the only one who can hear me."

  "How did you know that I would be able to hear you?"

  "I didn't know. I disturbed everyone in the manor, except Lord Adair who looked simply too handsome to be woken, and waited to see who would hear my voice. You did. You were the only one … so here we are."

  "I see," Lucy said. After a moment, she noticed that the room had started warming again and the quilt had turned hot under her hands. Her lids immediately felt heavy in the sudden heat and she struggled to keep them open.

  The vision of Aunt Sedley wavered and began disappearing from the edges.

  When three-quarters of the ghost had vanished, Lucy yawned and waved goodbye.

  "I will be back … back … back …." Aunt Sedley's voice slowly faded away with an echo.

  "What an odd dream," Lucy muttered, letting her head fall back on the pillow which had resumed its natural shape. Her small hand crept back under her cheek, the pink rushed back into her skin, and her eyes closed in blissful sleep.

  Chapter 11

  The morning sun cascaded in through the window.

  Lucy blinked awake and stretched her hands, neck and toes leisurely.

  The words 'The governess did it' bobbed by in her mind's eye and she froze mid-stretch as the memory of the previous day's events came careening back to her.

  The budding smile withered and collapsed upon her lips, and her stomach twisted itself into a thousand colourful knots.

  As if enjoying her misery, the sunlight brightened and raced into the room and proceeded to attack the small mirror lying on her dressing table.

  The reflective surface made the light ricochet in joy, and a particularly sharp beam smacked Lucy in the eye and dragged her out of her gloomy thoughts.

  She flung aside the sheets and frowned. The light streaming in through the window seemed different today. Was it brighter?

  Her toes curled in protest as she padded barefoot on the cold stone floor towards the window and peeked out. It was as if a white carpet had unrolled while she had slept and covered the whole of Blackwell.

  She breathed in sharply and flung open the window. It was still snowing, and with childish glee, she thrust her arm out letting the tiny white flakes melt on her skin. Happiness surged through her.

  If Blackwell could look pretty, then anything in the world was possible.

  She felt as if the snow melting on her arm was seeping into her veins restoring her good humour.

  She lifted her chin vowing to fight with all her might.

  They thought she had killed the old man did they? She would prove them all wrong. Aunt Sedley in that strangely vivid dream had been right. She must investigate….

  "I told you she has gone daft."

  Lucy yanked her hand back and turned to face the speaker.

  A young boy of ten with a mop of shocking red hair stood eyeing her warily from the door. An angelic nine year old girl with the same red hair stood by his side.

  "Pat, Hepsy," Lucy greeted in surprise.

  The two children quickly stepped back, their expressions akin to a pair of frightened geese.

  "Only someone daft would have killed him," Pat breathed into Hepsy's ear.

  Hepsy cocked her head to the side considering Lucy. "Batty," she finally agreed. "She was sticking her head out of the window in this weather."

  "Wants to catch her death," Pat replied grimly.

  Lucy slammed the window closed and turned back to the children. "My dears, I can hear you. I may be daft, but I am certainly not deaf."

  Hepsy skittered back with a squeak. Pat bravely stood his ground.

  They both regarded Lucy like she was a curiosity in the British Museum.

  Pat finally broke the silence. "Will they take you away, Miss Trotter?"

  At Lucy's raised eyebrow, he clarified. "People who punish murderers."

  Lucy edged her way carefully around the room so as not to frighten the children and sat on her bed. "I did not kill him," she said directing a bright open look at them.

  "But if they do take you away," Pat insisted, "they will imprison you in a dark cold place, won’t they?"

  Lucy nodded uncomfortably. "They shouldn't, but they might."

  "That dark place will have rats that bite," Hepsy whispered.

  Lucy tugged at the high neck of her nightgown. "Rats and mice," she agreed. She could feel the brightness in her dimming a little.

  "Then they will take you to a place much like our square here and put a noose around your neck and tighten it," Pat continued.

  A bead of sweat formed on Lucy's forehead.

  "Will it hurt?" Hepsy asked.

  Lucy gulped wondering how to change the topic. The two children seemed to be enjoying this morbid talk. They were eyeing her in fascination. "Would you like a present?" she desperately blurted out.

  At once tiny feet scuttled into the room. Prospective presents, Lucy noted, was an excellent way of banishing fears.

  Two hopeful faces looked at her.

  "A gift each in return for the beautiful brooch that you presented to me last night," She held out her hands and they leapt back a foot. She dropped her hands but kept the smile. "I wanted to thank you. I loved your gift. It was thoughtful." She paused, her eyes narrowed to slits. "Does Lady Sedley know you are here?"

  "No, she is still asleep," Pat said sitting down at the end of her bed.

  Lucy frowned. Surely Lady Sedley would not allow the children to visit her, not if she thought Lucy had killed her husband. She turned to Hepsy who was still standing a few feet away from her and gazing at her with wide, unblinking eyes. "Why are you staring at me, Miss Gardiner?"

  "Will you kill us too, Miss Trotter?" Hepsy asked, more curious than frightened.

  "Perhaps, Miss Gardiner," Lucy said sombrely.

  Pat quickly scuttled off the bed.

  Hepsy tilted her head and eyed her like a bird. "I didn't want to come but Pat insisted. He said he wanted to take a good look at a murderer. We may never see one again."

  Lucy felt a little hurt by that. One of the servants must have warned the children this morning. She kept her face neutral and said, "Would you like a souvenir from a murderess? You can show it to your children when you are older."

  Pat grinned and snatched the old blue ribbon dangling between Lucy's fingers. “I am not going to have any children."

  Hepsy took the red ribbon from Lucy's other hand. "I will have ten of them. I can cut this up into tiny, tiny pieces and put it in decorative boxes for all of them."

  "Would you like me to sign them for you?" Lucy asked.

  Hepsy brightened. "Oooh, then I can show it to Rosy. She got a new doll from her father last week, but I wager she hasn't anything from a killer."

  Lucy felt another pang in her heart. She wasn't particularly keen on the little monsters, but times like this reminded her of how they were orphans just like her. In a flash of abandon, she pulled out a second green ribbon and shoved it at Hepsy. "Here, keep this as well. Think of it as a gift this time … from your governess."

  Hepsy clutched the ribbon to her chest, her eyes large. "We won't be able to see you again, Miss Trotter."

  "We will sneak up here though," Pat objected, "and see her all the time."

  "She will be hanging to her death soon," Hepsy said shaking her head.

  Pat's eyes brimmed, but before the tears could fall, Lucy pounce
d on him and started tickling him.

  Hepsy forgot her fear and raced over to join in the fun.

  ***

  Sometime later when they had gone Lucy leaned back on the single, hard backed chair in the room and closed her eyes. Her heart was still beating rapidly from playing catch with the children. It took her a few moments of breathing slowly to calm herself and once again plunge into a world of grownups.

  Things were looking grim.

  She glanced towards the orange she had left at the grate for the scullery maid. It remained untouched, and after last evening, she wasn't surprised.

  The servants had rolled together to form a tightly wound up ball of yarn. Oh, the butler may toss her a couple of affectionate words now and then, grateful that she had apparently knifed the old man, but he was no fool. He would never go out of his way to help her. He would remain loyal to the servants.

  She shook her head in disgust.

  It was fruitless trying to unravel the downstairs syndicate.

  Now, upstairs was a different story. The Sedley family comprised of independent minded creatures who were as indifferent to each other as a rooster is to a squirrel, unless, of course, the rooster decided to steal the squirrel's nuts or the squirrel the rooster's grain.

  Nuts, grains and roosters, Lucy mused, distracted.

  She was hungry.

  Abandoning her meditations for a later time, she decided to go get some breakfast. After that, she promised herself, she would sit down in the library and form a decisive plan.

  For breakfast she was presented with two limp eggs, a bowl of unhappy porridge and no tea. Lucy squared her shoulders, picked up her fork, and like a soldier readying for battle who knows to take nourishment when they can, she attacked the food.

  It was a lonely meal, and she had no reason to linger considering the taste of it. Earthworms, she decided, would have tasted better sliding down her throat. With a shudder, she rose from the table and carried the plate back to the kitchen.

  She retreated quickly from the kitchen. The way the servants had looked at her had given her a sudden insight into what the French must have felt when faced with a large English army during Waterloo.