Murder At Rudhall Manor

"Miss Trotter, I hope you understand what an honour
this is?"

"Yes, Miss Summer," Lucy replied meekly.

"You will be stepping out into the world and leaving
the comforts of this orphanage forever. You will be representing us, Miss
Trotter, in an aristocratic family, and I hope you will do nothing to tarnish
our good name."

"No, Miss Summer."

"We have fed you, clothed you and educated you. You
were one of the privileged young women allowed to take lessons in French,
History and Latin instead of being trained to scrub fireplaces or work in a
mill."

"Yes, Miss Summer."

"Do you know why you were allowed such
advantages?"

"No, Miss Summer."

"Because you have something rare, something that is
lacking in over half of the world's population. It is a thing so beautiful that
I cannot ignore it when I see it."

"Truly, Miss Summer?"

"Yes, Miss Trotter. You have that something rare and
precious that is commonly known as a brain. And I have met very few brains in
my life, my dear. Most have been pulpy, frothy or entirely empty. But not
yours. Oh, no, no, no …
your
upper story is remarkable. It is
well-oiled, functioning and above all sparkling." The dark eyes above full
pink cheeks narrowed. "But that does not mean you are devoid of
faults."

"No, Miss Summer."

"At the Brooding Cranesbill we have tried our best to
cleanse you of your peccadilloes, but I can see we have not completely
succeeded." The old teacher moved forward in her seat and the silver
streaks in her scraped back hair glinted in the light. "Are you certain,
child, that you wouldn't rather work for the doctor? He said you were good at
making healing salves and never so much as squealed at the sight of blood. His
patients liked you—"

"I want to be a governess, miss."

"Well, then, if you are certain?" At Lucy's firm
nod, she continued. "You do not squeal at the sight of blood, but you do
squeal at the sight of ribbons. You must curtail this pleasure in frivolous
things."

"Yes, Miss Summer."

"You will remember at all times that you are an adult
now. You cannot play with the children as if they are your equal or behave in
any childish manner."

"I won't forget, Miss Summer—"

Once again, Miss Summer leaned forward in her seat arresting
Lucy's tongue. "You won't change your mind? I can let you take care of the
young children here at the orphanage. I will even pay you, not as much as Lord
Sedley is offering but close enough. You are hardworking, intelligent … I am
afraid of letting you run around England—"

"I am certain," Lucy replied with another firm
nod.

"But the children are eight and ten years old. The last
time you were asked to take care of a group of children that age, we found the
lot five miles south hanging out of apple trees."

"I was young—"

"It happened three months ago."

"I promise I won't encourage the children under my
charge to steal from farmers ever again—"

"You encouraged them to steal?" Miss Summer reeled
back, a hand on her scandalised heart.

"No, I mean I simply mentioned that the farmer seemed
to have had a good year and one apple each wouldn't hurt him. If birds can peck
on them and ruin—"

"Miss Trotter, you shall not steal. Not from farmers or
from the kitchens. Let ants and bloody birds have it if they want."

"Yes, Miss Summer," she replied with a heartfelt
sigh.

As expected the sigh immediately softened the old lady.
"You are a good girl—talented, charming, friendly, well-liked … If only
you didn't have a gap in your front teeth, you would have been considered
attractive."

Lucy pressed her lips together to hide the offending teeth.

Miss Summer tapped the table thoughtfully, her eyes scanning
a very long list in front of her. "What else? Ah yes, do not rearrange
Lord Sedley's library as you did for us when you were fifteen. It is not
amusing. And don't even think of wriggling down a creeper. You have an odd fear
of heights. It comes on like hiccups. Most of the time you scale down the wall
and sneak off to the nearest village like an experienced crook, but when the
fear hits you," She shook a finger in warning, "you stop midway
hanging four feet above the ground, clutching a bit of ivy, swinging to and fro
with your eyes closed shivering like a furless polar bear—"

"I will be good, Miss Summer. I truly will."

Miss Summer pushed the list away. "Will you?" she
asked sceptically. "Or rather, can you be good for an extended period,
Miss Trotter? I suppose I cannot tie you to the chair you are currently warming
and keep you here forever …."

Lucy nervously shook her head.

"It won't be easy," Miss Summer warned.

"The world is full of dangers," Lucy agreed.
"I will be careful."

"It won't be easy," Miss Summer repeated firmly,
"for the world to adjust to your presence. England will have to shift
around, make space, adapt a little, stand on its toe nails and stay alert to be
able to absorb someone like you … It may happen … Miracles are not unheard
off."

Lucy fixed her eye on a white speck on the table.

Miss Summer rummaged around in her desk drawer. "Your
mother's sister regretted the fact that she couldn't take you in after your
parents died in the fire, but she had eleven grimy ones of her own. Here."
She handed a deep red pouch to Lucy, "She left you some money. She wanted
me to give it you when you were old enough. I would have preferred waiting a
little longer before giving it to you, but age seems to define wisdom for some
fools."

Lucy jingled the pouch. It wasn't much but at least it was
something.

"It may be enough to buy you a dress," Miss Summer
said jerking a round dimpled chin towards the pouch. "Now, for the last
time, Miss Lucy Anne Trotter, are you certain you want to go to Blackwell and
take care of the children in Rudhall Manor?"

"I won't change my mind, Miss Summer."

"Well, then, that is that."

"Yes, that is that."

"That is final?"

"It is."

"You will not be allowed back once you leave, Miss
Trotter. You are aware we have responsibilities, many mouths to feed—"

"I understand."

"I see … This is goodbye then."

"Yes," Lucy said in a voice thick with emotion.
"Goodbye, Miss Summer." She paused near the door and looked back at
her beloved teacher. "And, Miss Summer …"

"Yes?"

"Thank you … for everything."

"You are welcome, child. Now repay me by behaving like
a well-mannered young lady for the rest of your life."

"I shall try my best, Miss Summer."

"For Lord Sedley's sake, I truly hope so."

Lucy nodded and left the room. She closed the door and
leaned back against it.

After a brief moment, one dark brown eye opened just a touch
and looked right and then left.

The corridor was empty.

Her ears strained and twitched.

All was silent.

Her lips curled up at the corners, and then as if a bee
stung her on the arm, she jerked and came alive. Her arms flapped, her legs
hopped and skipped, her head shook from side to side, pins flew and the thick
brown locks loosened and knotted themselves together.

She did not notice when the door opened behind her and Miss
Summer came out, nor did she notice when the nearest room emptied and a group
of sixteen-year-olds abandoned their stitching to come and watch her.

Nor did she stop when a distant dinner bell peeled through
the orphanage because at this beautiful moment Miss Lucy Anne Trotter was busy
doing the happy dance of freedom.

Three months later …

On the outskirts of London, wedged between Muffly and
Duffly, sat an unassuming village called Blackwell.

And while London leaped, bounded and raced about, Blackwell
village yawned, stretched and bobbed along sluggishly.

The trees in this village swayed gloomily, the petulant
birds ceased their chirping, and the clouds made their way across the sky like
slow, overfed worms.

The air held a tropical breeziness to it in spite of it
being midwinter, and the river flowed along at a languid pace, gently teasing
bits of floating ice to move farther down the stream.

 As for the villagers, they went about their business
half asleep with drooping eyes, sagging jaws and wide unconcealed yawns that
spread through the streets passed on from man to man, woman to woman and child
to monkey.

Lucy, too, had been affected by this strange lethargy that
had enveloped the village. She was sitting inside the local inn, sipping a
tepid cup of coffee, her head lolling to one side and her bottom tender from
sitting on the hard wooden chair.

She was in a listless mood today. Everything around her
seemed stagnant and dull. Often this sort of phlegmatic atmosphere is followed
by a whirlwind of action, roaring chaos and deafening storms, or at least she
hoped this was the case.

She needed a punch of excitement in her life and a swig of
the old liveliness. She needed something to happen.
Anything
.

You see, she would have fallen asleep considering the
soporific environment but for the fact that her small pointed ears were
currently being assaulted by the sounds coming from the corner where a deluded
young man sat thumping away at a piano.

He was attempting to sing a horrifying rendition of the
famous ballad called 'The Princess and Her Wandering Toe' and she wished he
would cease at once.

She hoped the man would get a sudden urge to jump into his
teacup and drown himself, or a tiny cloud would whizz in through the window,
settle itself above the singer and proceed to rain on his head, instantly
drenching him and giving him a powerful cold.

An angel, it seemed, had been passing by over her head at
that very moment, for her wish was granted and something did happen.

A sudden gust of chilly breeze swept through the village,
nipping the yawns out of man, woman, child and monkey.

Lucy's head straightened, eyes brightened.

The sleepy indoor air shivered awake.

The river surged slamming the floating blocks of ice against
the rocky bank until they splintered into a thousand pieces.

A cacophony of shouts, bellows and whoops erupted on the
street drowning out the young singer's tremulous voice.

It sounded like the world was coming to an end outside the
inn.

The old, dried-up man with a porous nose sitting next to
Lucy's table stopped leering at her and instead peered out of the frosted
window pane that was letting in the dull grey evening light.

He stroked his thin white moustache worriedly.

Lucy followed his gaze and peered out of the window. She
spotted an assortment of booted feet racing over shiny cobbled stones.

A pair of big brown boots caught her eye, and she watched as
it leaped into the air and clicked its heels together. Old green riding boots
followed at a more reluctant pace.

Sweet feminine legs ending in slim, delicate leather boots
trailed after large handsome ones, while tiny little childish boots were being
chased by sensible motherly ones.

The language of these hurrying boots belonging to the
villagers of Blackwell was mixed. Some were happy, some sad, some alarmed,
while some excited. Lucy had never before realised that the lower part of the
human anatomy could portray so many emotions.

Abandoning her cup of coffee, she tentatively moved closer
to the window almost afraid of what she would find.

She stood for a moment curling and uncurling her fist around
the dusty curtain of the inn in an attempt to warm her freezing hands. The
crusty old innkeeper had given her a table far from the crackling fire and, in
spite of being indoors for over an hour, not an inch of her skin felt warm.

 She debated joining the crowd outside to learn the
reason for the chaos.

A wintery draft sneaked in through a crack in the window,
numbing her poor cold ears and reminding her of the icy gust sweeping across
the street.

She paused, undecided.

Behind her, what had begun as a soft murmur turned into
panicked squeaks. Feet shuffled, skidded and crunched over the wooden floor
strewn with peanut shells as people abandoned their dinners to join the
swelling crowd outside.

The possibility of impending doom had put a spring in every
step. Even the most lethargic creatures in the room became vivacious as they
fled the inn with remarkable speed.

Lucy pressed her slightly upturned nose to the icy
windowpane. The pounding footsteps, the clamour inside and outside the inn, and
the spirited singer banging away on the untuned piano as if possessed by some
otherworldly being made it impossible for her to hear a single coherent word or
see anything other than chaos.

She slanted an annoyed look at the singer.

The young man did not notice her lethal stare but continued
his assault on the piano trying to be heard over the noise. His fingers raced
over the keys, the elbows joined in and at times so did his feet.

It was as if he wanted to make music with every part of his
soul as well as every part of his body. He pounded the keys with an almost
manic excitement certain that this was the end of the world.

Soon his fingers, elbows, ears and toes were speeding over
the keys faster and faster striking darts of fear in the hearts of sensitive
listeners. Finally, with a crash, his head hit the keys and he lay unmoving.

And with the end of the frightening song, Lucy became aware
of the silence.

The noise had died away leaving whispers in its wake.

The lane outside was quiet with only a few stragglers
rapidly walking towards the square every now and then.

She turned her head to find the inn empty apart from the
gently snoring singer.

Plates of steaming food, ale, breads and pastries lay
abandoned on tables. A wine glass had been knocked over, the dark liquid snaking
its way across the grooves in the wooden table. No one was around to clean it.

Even the owner seemed to have disappeared.

After a moment’s hesitation, Lucy snatched the bread off her
table, grabbed a chicken leg off an untouched plate and raced outside.

She caught up with the villagers easily and, pulling up the
hood of her thin woollen coat, merged in with the crowd.

She moved along with the chattering bodies towards the
square.

Speculation was rife in the air with some whispering about a
fire, while the more positive ones hoped that the mad dash was for something
more exciting … like free cheese being provided by the demented king.

Lucy stopped listening to the debate around her and started
walking faster. The cold, wet mud had soaked her boots and seeped in through
the cracks in the leather to dampen her stockings.

If she dawdled any longer, she was afraid her toes would
freeze and fall off.

It wasn't long before she spotted the tall wooden spike that
marked the centre of the village square.

Her heart started thundering in fear while her teeth
furiously worked on the chicken leg as she joined the villagers, a dog, six
cats, some sheep and a cow swarming towards the middle of the square.

She wondered what she was going to find.…