by Amy Cross
“Why's she sleeping on the floor?” Phillip asked.
“She's not sleeping, you cretin! She's dead! Even you should be able to see that! For God's sake, the woman is dead!”
“No, she -”
“This isn't going to work!” the old man hissed, stepping past the body and heading over to the kitchen, where he paused for a moment and leaned against the counter. Out of breath and filled with panic, he tried to come up with another plan, and his mind raced as he struggled to come up with an explanation that would satisfy the police. In the space of just a few minutes, he imagined himself doing everything from confessing and throwing himself on the officers' mercy, to cutting Deborah's body up with an ax and burning the pieces. Each plan had its advantages, but also plenty of drawbacks, but he told himself that he'd come up with something if he just focused a little more. His thoughts were only finally broken when he heard Phillip sobbing gently.
“Cut that out!” he muttered. “You're distracting me!”
“I didn't mean to hurt her,” Phillip whimpered.
“What are you talking about?”
“Was it my fault?”
“Your fault? Of course it wasn't your fault, you simpering little moron.” Sighing, he turned and paced through to the front room, where he spotted Deborah's laptop resting on the coffee table. “I need a better plan. A better idea. There has to be a way out of this.”
“I'm sorry, Deborah,” Phillip sobbed, stroking her dead face.
“They'll never believe that I didn't kill her,” Lord Chesleford continued, trying to set his thoughts straight. “My prints on the knife. Her blood on my hands. And they'll find the camera in the bathroom, and the one in the bedroom, and they'll find the microphones. Even if they don't, they'll figure out somehow that I was maintaining a close interest in her comings and goings. They'll frame me for this!”
“Please wake up.”
“I can't go to jail. I just can't. For hundreds of years, Cheslefords have been the pride of this parish. I will not be the one who lets the family name go to ruin.”
“Please, Deborah. I'm sorry. Wake up.”
“She's dead!” Lord Chesleford sneered, turning to see his son still sobbing over the body.
Phillip shook his head.
“Look at her! Christ, you stupid little bastard, she's dead!”
“But she can wake up!” Stumbling to his feet, Phillip stepped back against the counter. Spotting the bloodied knife, he picked it up and stared at the blood.
Lord Chesleford watched his son for a moment, as an idea began to form in his mind. He dismissed the notion quickly, but it crept back after just a few seconds and this time he allowed himself to consider the possibilities. As Phillip stood over the body, holding the knife, Lord Chesleford saw the confusion and fear in his son's eyes, and his mind raced as he tried to work out whether his new idea could work. Every time he thought of a problem, a solution seemed to present itself with remarkable ease, until finally he took a step toward Phillip and saw that the knife was about to slip from his son's trembling hand.
“Phillip,” he said cautiously, forcing his voice to sound calm and collected, “what have you done?”
Phillip turned to him.
“What have you done, Phillip? Why is Deborah on the floor? Why are you holding that knife?”
Clearly confused, Phillip looked down at the knife and then let go. Stepping back as the knife clattered to the floor, he tripped against Deborah's torso and stumbled, bumping against the door-frame and then backing out slowly into the yard.
“Stay right where you are!” Lord Chesleford roared, heading over to Deborah's body and crouching down. He made a show of checking her neck for a pulse, before looking up at his son again. “She's dead, Phillip. Did you do this to her?”
Phillip shook his head.
“It's okay,” the old man continued, getting to his feet. “Phillip, the most important thing is that you don't panic.”
“Deborah was my girlfriend,” Phillip whimpered, as fresh tears ran down his cheeks. “I liked Deborah!”
“I know you did. Of course you did.” He paused. “But sometimes bad things happen, Phillip, even to people we like very much.”
Phillip shook his head again.
“Oh, but they do, Phillip. It's terribly sad. Perhaps you don't understand the way of the world very well, but we do things that we can't explain. All of us. We make terrible mistakes. And let me promise you, at one point in all of our lives, we all have reason to look down at our hands and say those four awful words.”
He took a step closer, as Phillip looked down at his own hands.
“What,” Lord Chesleford said calmly, “have I done?”
“What have I done?” Phillip whimpered.
“Exactly, my boy. Those are the four words.”
“What have I done?” Phillip stammered again.
“That's right! Say it one more time!”
“What have I done?”
“You've killed a woman you cared about, Phillip. That's what you've done.”
Phillip began to shake his head, before freezing for a moment and then looking down at Deborah's body.
“You killed poor, dear Deborah,” Lord Chesleford continued, before reaching over and placing a hand on his son's shoulder. “Fortunately, I know exactly how to help you. All you have to do is trust me.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Today
“I thought it would take them all of a few hours to come for Phillip,” Lord Chesleford said as he stared into his whiskey glass. He took a moment to swirl the liquid, before gulping it down and then starting to pour yet another. “I thought even our dependably stupid police force would be able to put the pieces together and come to the conclusion that Phillip was the murderer.”
“But they didn't,” Jo pointed out.
“Quite right. They didn't. Somehow, the idiot in charge of the investigation zeroed in on Harry bloody Morgan instead. They found Phillip's fingerprints, of course, but they assumed he'd gone there with me some day previously. I denied such a thing, but they still didn't seem to believe Phillip was responsible. I suppose the cretinous child seemed too innocent and too stupid. As for my fingerprints, well, the cottage was mine and I was known to pay visits, so that wasn't questioned at all. I thought they'd get the picture once they searched Phillip's bedroom and found the laptop I hid there, but they never bothered to check here at all. They just took Harry Morgan in for questioning, and that was that.”
“And then they let Harry go.”
“That didn't change anything. As far as I can gather, the fool in charge of the investigation still believed in Harry's guilt. All of which meant that the case remained open.”
“And while that was the situation,” Jo continued, “you couldn't rest, just in case something went wrong and the police realized you were the killer.”
“I didn't realize how nervous I'd feel. Can you imagine what it's like to frame your own son, and then for the police to miss an open goal?”
“How could you do that to Phillip?” Jo asked, unable to hide her disgust.
“Oh, the boy was pointless!” he spat back at her. “Don't get on your high horse with me, young lady. He was a waste of blood and bone! I'd long since given up on him ever being of any value to me at all, ever since the accident. But then I realized that I could use him to take the blame for Deborah's death. He wouldn't have minded spending the rest of his life in jail. He barely had a mind, he'd have been just as happy in a cell as he was in his bedroom. It didn't matter to him. In fact, it might even have been a kindness on my part. They'd have looked after him in jail.”
“But you made him believe he'd killed Deborah.”
“And I persuaded him to keep quiet, too. It's not like he had any friends. I just needed to keep him calm until I could find some other way to make the police notice him.”
“Which is why you called me in?”
“Eventually I gave up on the idiots at the station. I realize
d I needed outside help, so I hired you. I thought you'd push things along a little, I assumed you'd come to the conclusion that Phillip was the killer. I needed him to be apprehended, you see? I needed the case to be closed, so that I could rest easy at night. God knows, my nerves have been frayed these past few months.”
“I don't know how you could sleep at all,” Jo told him.
“Spare me your sanctimony,” he muttered. “I made a wise choice.”
“Do you seriously believe that?”
“Phillip's life was ruined from the moment he suffered that head injury. He should have been grateful to me, for finding some use for him at the end. I even invited you here for dinner in the hope that you'd become suspicious of him, but you didn't seem to get the hint.”
“You could have told the truth to the police in the beginning.”
“They'd never have believed me. They'd have asked why I was holding a knife outside her door in the first place.”
“And why were you?”
“I wanted her to see that I could protect her!” he spluttered. “I wanted to look strong!”
“Why did Susannah Marriott have to die?”
He opened his mouth to answer, before hesitating.
“I know it was you,” she continued. “Don't bother lying.”
“No-one else was supposed to get hurt,” he said cautiously. “I'm not a murderer, not really. It's just that, on the night she drunkenly stormed in here while you were visiting, I realized she was going to destabilize Phillip. Once she'd gone, he seemed upset, as if he was starting to forget everything I'd drilled into her head. Then I realized I could kill two birds with one stone, if you'll pardon the expression. I could stop the Marriott woman interfering, and I could give you and the ridiculous police yet another nudge.”
“So you killed her in cold blood?”
“Such a stupid phrase,” he sneered. “Anyway, her life wasn't worth much more than Phillip's. I simply realized that her death would be useful.”
Chapter Thirty
Two nights ago
“Good night,” Susannah said, reaching out to swing the car door shut.
“What about her novel?” Jo asked from the driver's seat. “Can you tell me anything about that?”
“Never read a word,” Susannah replied, slamming the door shut and then walking away along the cold, windy street. “Barely a word, anyway,” she muttered under her breath. “Just a few chapters. Just enough to know that it was the thinly-disguised confession of a thief. And badly-written to boot.”
Hurrying toward the hotel, she spotted some of the night porters outside the front steps. Preferring to keep from being seen while she was still a little tipsy, she began to make her way around to the rear of the building. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Jo's car disappearing into the night, and then she cut across the corner of the car park and hurried past the low wall, making her way toward the steps that led up into the darkened kitchen. She was still fuming, still muttering angrily to herself, although after a moment she thought back to Phillip's horrified cries earlier in the evening.
Finally, as she got closer to the back door, she took her part of the necklace from her pocket and looked at the silver half-heart.
Suddenly hearing steps behind her, she began to turn. Before she had a chance, however, a hand covered her mouth and she was pulled back, and a knife sliced into the small of her back several times. She tried to cry out, but her legs quickly buckled and Lord Chesleford dragged her back into the shadows before carefully lowering her shuddering body down onto the ground. She gurgled as she began to choke on her own blood, and then she rolled onto her side, causing a trickle of blood to start running from her mouth and spattering against the ground.
Letting out a gasp as he leaned against the wall, the old man struggled for a moment to get his breath back, before checking once more that no-one was nearby and then hurrying toward a car parked nearby. Pulling the door open, he reached in and pulled Phillip out of the passenger seat.
“Not one word!” he whispered, placing a finger against his lips. “Do you hear me? I don't want to hear so much as a peep from you!”
“It's cold,” Phillip replied, “and -”
Before he could finish, his father slapped him hard and then took a cotton gag from his pocket.
“Turn around. I didn't want to have to do this, but you leave me no choice.”
“I just -”
Stepping behind him, Lord Chesleford placed the gag over his son's mouth and then tied it tight around the back of his head. Phillip let out a faint, muffled cry as he was pushed forward, but then he let his father lead him through the shadows until they reached the corner of the car park. Stopping, Phillip saw the dead body on the ground, and his eyes opened even wider as soon as he recognized Susannah. He turned to run, but his father pressed the knife into his hand and shoved him forward. When Phillip tried again to hurry away, Lord Chesleford grabbed his shoulder and forced him down onto his knees, right next to the body.
“Give me your hand,” he blustered, kneeling next to him and taking hold of Phillip's wrist, guiding the knife down toward Susannah's chest. Without saying another word, and ignoring Phillip's muffled groan, he pushed his son's hand down and forced it to drive the blade into the woman's chest, causing her to jerk one final time as the blade pierced her heart.
“I don't want to!” Phillip whimpered, trying to pull the knife away as the gag came loose.
“Oh, grow a spine, boy!”
“I don't want to hurt her!”
Staring down into Susannah's eyes, Phillip saw her staring straight back up at him. And then, a moment later, her gaze shifted slightly and she was dead.
“Wait for it,” Lord Chesleford muttered, forcing Phillip's hand to twist the knife a little until the blade scratched against a rib. “We have to be sure, boy.”
Phillip was sobbing and trying to cry out through the gag, but Lord Chesleford kept his hand pushed down firmly for a moment longer before finally pulling it up and sliding the blade out.
“Look what you've done,” the old man said after a moment, his voice trembling with nerves. “Oh Phillip, look, it's Suzie! Do you remember Suzie? You must. You -”
Phillip let out a pained yelp and tossed the knife aside, but Lord Chesleford held him firmly.
“Look, Phillip, at what you did! You loved Suzie, didn't you? This must be very upsetting for you. Very upsetting indeed.”
Phillip hesitated, with tears still streaming from his eyes, and then he muttered something under his breath. Pulling his arm free from his father's grip, he reached down toward Susannah's body and began to peel back the fingers of her left hand, until the half-heart necklace dropped onto the gravel. Picking up the necklace, Phillip turned it over for a moment, as if he recognized something about its appearance.
“It's like the one you used on Deborah, isn't it?”
Phillip shook his head, staring in horror at the blade as blood dribbled down onto the gravel.
“Come on,” Lord Chesleford muttered finally, getting to his feet and pulling his son up too, “it's time for us to get out of here before some nosy parker comes along and sees us. You know what people are like in this godforsaken town.” He began to lead Phillip to the car. “Always interfering in one another's business and lives. Honestly, it's hard to believe that most of them don't have anything better to do with their time. People these days are so utterly ridiculous.”
After forcing Phillip back into the passenger seat, he hurried around and climbed in the other side, before starting the engine and driving out of the lot. Glancing toward the hotel, he saw that there was no sign of anyone going near the spot where Susannah had been left, and he realized that she might not be discovered for a few hours yet. Turning his attention to the road ahead, he drove along the dark, deserted street for a few minutes before looking over at Phillip and seeing that his son was almost catatonic in the other seat, staring ahead with a horrified expression in his eyes.
“O
h, what have you done this time, Phillip?” the old man asked with a sad, doleful tone. “Have you hurt someone again? Have you hurt another woman?”
After a moment, he spotted something glinting in Phillip's hand. Reaching over, he took the necklace and saw the inscription mentioning Susannah's name.
***
“Of course you did!” Lord Chesleford yelled, leaning down toward Phillip and causing his son to immediately flinch away. “You killed her! You killed Suzie Marriott last night, you wicked boy!”
“No!” Phillip sobbed, shaking his head. “Please, I'd never -”
“I saw you! I saw you plunge the knife into her chest!”
“No, I -”
Before he could finish, Phillip looked down at his trembling right hand. Morning sunlight was streaming through the bedroom window, and he paused for a moment as if he was remembering the previous night.
“You were holding a knife,” his father continued. “It was the same knife you used when you killed poor Deborah. I know you remember that.”
“I...”
“You remember, Phillip. Just focus on that particular memory. Focus on the memory of your hand, forcing the blade between her ribs and into her chest. Focus on the memory of the tip slicing into her heart. You must have felt that, Phillip. A little resistance as the metal pushed against the wall of her heart, and then the give as the blade cut through and blood erupted into her chest. She even jolted one final time for you. You remember that, don't you? And the look in her eyes. She saw you, Phillip. She knew it was you.”