by Blythe Baker
“But he swooped in, as he always did,” Mr. Fields said, quite clearly lost in his own memories. His free hand clenched into a fist, which he stared at with such deep hatred that I might have thought he convinced himself it had been Mr. Hill. “He went after her and he told her before I ever had the chance. He stole her from me!”
Another small step, slowly…slowly…
“What else was I to do?” he cried. “Should I have let it go? When I had put my heart and soul into—”
My hand had closed over the doorknob. The creak of the door snapped him out of his reverie.
We stared at one another for a moment, him wild-eyed and me filled with fear.
I yanked the door open at the same moment that he lunged at me, his knife pointed toward me.
“You cannot get away! No one must know!” he cried.
I managed to get the door open and threw myself inside, just as his blade sank into the door just above my shoulder.
I let out a shriek but pushed myself to run as fast as I could go.
He cried out and I heard the yanking sound of the blade being pulled from the wood.
What now? I thought. Which way do I run?
The thud, thud, thud of his feet against the floor behind me spurred me onward. I did not stop at the door to the kitchens, knowing he could grab me if I stopped.
“Help!” I cried, turning out into the main hall, making a dash for the foyer. “Help!”
My heart thundered. I could feel him gaining on me. If I did not find someone to intervene, he would surely catch up with me. I knew that he would not hesitate to—
“Miss Fairweather?”
I looked up, seeing Mr. Fitzroy stepping out of the parlor, his eyes sweeping over the situation.
He acted a great deal more quickly than I ever could have hoped. He leapt forward, grabbing me, and yanked me out of Mr. Fields’ reach. He closed the door to the parlor behind us, and a moment later, Mr. Fields crashed against the back of it.
“Do not interfere, old man!” Mr. Fields shouted, his breathing harsh and fast. “I have to finish this!”
“You have lost your mind,” Mr. Fitzroy said through the door. “You would have to kill me next and anyone else who might have seen you chasing her through the halls.”
Mr. Fields grunted, his breathing still strong and heavy.
Mr. Fitzroy glanced over at me. “I assume this is the man who killed Mr. Hill?”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak, my own breathing fast and hard.
Mr. Fitzroy said, “Well, we cannot leave him out there. He might—”
Mr. Fields let out a cry out in the hall.
My stomach dropped. No! He must not harm anyone else!
I pulled the door open and hurried out into the hall, hearing Mr. Fitzroy calling after me. All I could think was of seeing Selina or Mrs. Montford in harm’s way.
An arm closed around my waist and tried to pull me away.
Mr. Fitzroy hurried out after me and threw himself at the two of us.
I waited for the moment the blade would pierce my flesh, closing my eyes, anticipating what I could only assume would be a horrible, stabbing pain.
“Anna! Run!”
I opened my eyes and saw Mr. Fitzroy wrestling with Mr. Fields, holding the villain’s hand in a vice-like grip, keeping the knife away from himself and from me.
But Mr. Fields was younger and stronger than the butler. I could see that this fight would quickly end if something, or someone, did not intervene.
“Go fetch help!” Mr. Fitzroy shouted at me.
Mr. Fields groaned in response.
My heart pounded. There was no time.
My eyes swept over the room and fell upon a vase sitting on a table along the far wall.
I hurried to it, not giving myself the chance to think. I snatched the vase off the table, ran across the hall, and hoisted it up over my head
I brought it crashing down onto Mr. Fields’ skull.
The strike sent tremors up my arms as I made contact. The vase shattered on impact.
Mr. Fields crumpled to the floor, all of the fight in him immediately gone.
Mr. Fitzroy composed himself and straightened his clothing, his chest still heaving.
He and I looked at one another just as others came hurrying toward us, asking questions, crying out over one another.
“Precisely who is this?” Mr. Fitzroy asked. “Do we know?”
“It’s Mr. Fields, sir,” I said, sweeping some stray hairs from my eyes. “One of Mr. Hill’s friends.”
Mr. Fitzroy shook his head and stepped over the collapsed body to reach me. “Are you all right?” he asked. “You’re bleeding…”
I looked down to see my hands trembling and a long, thin scratch across the heel of my palm. Crimson blood rose to the surface, beading up.
15
“There, now, isn’t this better?” Selina asked, slipping her arm through mine. “A walk is just what we needed.”
We strode through the park beside the house, some distance away, shrouded by the shadows of the tall trees that we passed beneath. The lawn had been dusted with snow yet remained untouched by happy children, as the hour had not yet struck nine.
“We should not linger,” I said, a shiver running up my arms and down my back. “The cold will not do us good if we remain outdoors.”
“Oh, come now, we are only a short walk from home,” Selina said, peering behind my back toward the rowhouse.
I followed her gaze and could just make it out along the road at the far end of the park.
“Besides, Mrs. Montford insisted that you take your morning walk,” she said. “She said exercise is—”
“Good for the soul, yes, I know,” I said with a sigh. “Yet I would be much happier busying myself instead of allowing myself the chance to think.”
“Sometimes it is important that we think on these things,” Selina said. “Instead of hiding from them.”
I recoiled internally from the assault of memories that had been washing over me since Mr. Fields had appeared three days before. “What good is it?” I asked. “Thinking about it all will not change anything.”
“No,” Selina said, “but it will allow you to put it behind you.”
I frowned. “There is a great deal that I have had to simply put behind me these past many weeks.”
“Yes, I know,” Selina said. “Which is why I have been so worried about you.”
A glove that she had been carrying fell from her hands and tumbled down to the frosted path at our feet.
I knelt to grab it and winced as my hand closed over it.
“Oh, Anna,” Selina scolded, bending over as well and taking the glove from me.
We both straightened and she reached for my hand. She turned it over, my palm face up.
The bandage around my hand had come slightly loose. She began to fix it at once.
“Selina, you do not have to—”
“Yes, I do,” she said. “Is it feeling any better?”
“It is healing,” I said. “Though it is stubborn, given where it is on my hand. It has made it rather hard to do anything.”
After she adjusted the bandage, we continued on our walk.
My heart, weary and heavy, seemed to want only to wallow in my sorrow. Despite the Christmas season, I could find no cheer in my heart to celebrate it. That troubled me, as it would have been the first time in my life that I cared so little for it.
“Mr. Jerome said that he had brought the name of Jasper Fields to the authorities the very same day that he appeared at the house,” Selina said. “At least, that is what some of the other staff have said. Is it true?”
I nodded. “Yes…that is what he told Mrs. Montford.”
“And you, of course,” Selina said. “He was concerned about you.”
My cheeks turned pink. “So he says.”
We continued on for a few moments.
“And what of your errand out of the house yesterday?” Selina aske
d. “You said nothing about it when you returned home.”
The familiar knots returned to my stomach. They tightened, writhed, wriggled.
The pier where my father had died. I had decided it was time to go and see it for myself. After the memory had flooded back to me at the art gallery, it would not leave me alone. I needed to see if my memory had simply been playing tricks on me, or if it had all been real.
“It was just as I remembered it,” I said in a low voice. “The long, rickety pier…the shallow break wall along the bank…the rocky edges, the steep dropoff…”
“Did it give you any peace?” she asked, a note of anxiousness in her voice.
I tried to swallow but the lump in my throat made it difficult. “Anything but,” I said. “I—”
I stopped walking, an icy sickness washing over me.
“What? What is it?” Selina asked, whipping her head around, looking for some sort of danger.
My heart raced and the memory in my mind came back so strong, so clear.
I turned to look at her, the shock of realization draining all color from my face. “The man in the water fighting with my father,” I said, my mouth suddenly having gone dry. “I…I know him.”
Continue the mysterious adventures of Anna Fairweather with “An Unexpected Misfortune: An Anna Fairweather Murder Mystery, Book 4.”
About the Author
Blythe Baker is the lead writer behind several popular historical and paranormal mystery series. When Blythe isn't buried under clues, suspects, and motives, she's acting as chauffeur to her children and head groomer to her household of beloved pets. She enjoys walking her dog, lounging in her backyard hammock, and fiddling with graphic design. She also likes binge-watching mystery shows on TV.
To learn more about Blythe, visit her website and sign up for her newsletter at www.blythebaker.com