An Uninvited Corpse (An Anna Fairweather Murder Mystery Book 3) Read online

  Recognition brightened his face. “Oh, yes, he just passed by. I wondered who he was.”

  “Where did he go?” I asked.

  “Toward the foyer,” he said, gesturing over his shoulder.

  “Did you see him leave already?”

  “I believe so,” George said. “I think—”

  I brushed past him, not lingering to see precisely what it was that he thought.

  As I reached the door, footsteps sounded behind me. When I turned, I saw the newest member of the household, Mr. Fitzroy.

  An older gentleman than the previous butler, Mr. Hendrick, had been, Mr. Fitzroy had dark hair peppered with grey along his temples that gave him a dignified appearance as opposed to an aged one.

  “Where are you off to in such a hurry?” he asked in his deep voice, as I hurriedly grabbed my coat from one of the hooks near the door and draped it over my shoulders.

  “After the artist,” I said. “Did he just leave?”

  “Moments ago,” Mr. Fitzroy said. “Is something wrong?”

  “Not wrong,” I said, already feeling a bit out of breath. “I need to catch him. Mrs. Montford needs him to return at a different time than what they had agreed upon.”

  “Well, do not catch your death out there,” the butler said. “These early December evenings have a bite to them.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Fitzroy. I should not be more than a moment,” I said.

  He pulled the door open for me and I rushed out onto the top step, before pausing to peer down to the sidewalk.

  Mrs. Montford’s home was far enough removed from the busiest parts of the city to offer some peace and quiet. The townhouses across the street, as well as those connected to ours, all looked a great deal alike, made of brick with the same white framing of the windows and front door. A handsome awning with white pillars stood at the top of the stairs to every door. The distinctions between each home seemed to be how they decorated the sidewalk at the foot of the stairs.

  A green park was off to my left and the street filled with rows of homes to my right.

  There were people walking up and down the sidewalks, some of them children making their way home. Others must have been out for errands or to enjoy the last of the day’s light, which was quickly disappearing on the horizon.

  I quickly scanned the crowds for Mr. Hill, worrying that he might very well be too far away for me to see. As I looked from person to person, I realized that most adhered to the latest fashion trends, and that being the case, the men looked a great deal alike.

  After a moment, I spotted Mr. Hill across the distance.

  “Mr. Hill!” I called, hurrying down the stairs and starting up the street. “Mr. Hill, please wait!”

  Color rose in my cheeks as those closest to me turned to stare. I could see the worry in their faces; shouts as night fell were typically signs of trouble, were they not?

  “Pardon me,” I said, skirting around a couple who had stopped to stare at me. “I apologize but I must catch up with someone.”

  Mr. Hill darted across the street right then, still quite far away from me, almost at the end of the street.

  I picked up my pace, gripping the ends of my skirt so as to keep them in place.

  “Mr. Hill!”

  I reached the part of the sidewalk where he had crossed and stepped out into the street.

  “Ah!” I shrieked, leaping back off the brick road.

  A car shot past me, blaring its horn.

  The tremble of the ground shot up my legs. It had been that close.

  I gasped for breath, holding onto a lamppost. My heart thundered in my chest and my palms were slick with sweat.

  “Watch out!” snapped a man walking past. “You could have gotten yourself killed!”

  I swallowed, though my mouth had gone bone dry. “I-I wasn’t—”

  “Looking? Paying attention?” he growled.

  Taking in the servant’s apron I wore, he shook his head. “Whoever you work for should dismiss you.”

  My face burned as he walked away.

  Then I remembered why it was that I had launched myself out into the street. I was on an errand.

  I searched the other side of the street and managed to just catch sight of Mr. Hill turning around the corner at the end of the street.

  This time, I ensured there were no other cars making their way toward me, before rushing across.

  As I reached the other side, the streetlamps all began to flicker on, filling the sidewalks and edges of the street with pools of yellow light.

  It’s going to be too dark to see soon, I warned myself. If I don’t catch him quickly, I will have to turn back…

  I noticed him make his way down an adjacent side street. I quickly followed after him.

  “Mr. Hill!” I called out, drawing the attention of everyone apart from him, it seemed.

  Anger mixed with my embarrassment. I hoped he would feel remorse for making me chase him all the way out here.

  I passed by a small commercial part of the area, where Mrs. Montford’s favorite florist made her business, as well as a post office, a home goods shop, and a handsome stone church that looked as if it had stood in that exact spot for a hundred years.

  A small cobblestone street that had yet to be changed to the brick roads of the rest of the neighborhood ran between the buildings that housed the florist’s and the post office. A few other small, seedy sorts of businesses, including a pub, had doorways along the way.

  When I saw Mr. Hill turn and start down the street—likely to take it as a shortcut—I stopped, staring at the mouth of the street. The church’s tall steeple on the other side of the florist’s ensured that street always remained in the shadows.

  I hesitated. This chase had gone on too long. Mrs. Montford would surely expect me back by now. Still, I didn’t like to return and admit I had failed in my mission…

  I stepped right up to the edge of the street, to the threshold of shadows, and stared down it.

  Mr. Hill was making his way down, whistling to himself, swinging the case filled with his painting supplies.

  It is entirely likely that he would hear me now, I realized.

  I opened my mouth to shout out his name, to catch his attention before he reached the end of the street and stepped out into the brightness of the main street beyond, when a figure appeared from behind a row of rubbish bins along the wall.

  It moved quickly, darting across the narrow width of the street, and slammed squarely into Mr. Hill’s side.

  The dark, unintelligible shape collided against the opposite wall.

  Mr. Hill let out a terrible, bone-chilling cry.

  I gasped, backing away. Instinctively, I ducked behind one of the brick posts leading up the steps to the front door of the post office.

  A grunt and a thud caused me to peer back around the corner of the post, staring down into the darkness. It took my eyes a moment to adjust, but when they did, I saw the two men scuffling. Groans and growls, even the sound of fabric tearing, echoed down the alleyway.

  Then, the struggling figures moved into a narrow ribbon of light from a streetlamp that was mostly blocked by the nearest building. A brilliant flash of something metal, held aloft in a gloved hand, reflected down the road. I caught a fleeting glimpse of a small black shape like a star cast by the metallic reflection.

  My heartbeat thundered in my ears.

  I willed myself to flee, to run and fetch help, but my feet refused to obey my command.

  A distinct squelch filled the air, consumed every thought, surged through my mind…a sound that could only mean one thing.

  Flesh had been impaled...and I had the chilling feeling that it was Mr. Hill who had lost the fight.

  I turned away, leaning back against the pillar, clamping a hand over my mouth to block the scream that nearly escaped by lips.

  I forced myself to take deep breaths. I needed to remain quiet. If the person who attacked Mr. Hill heard me, they would surely come after me as well.
>
  But what if Mr. Hill was still alive? He might need me. He might need help!

  I forced myself to look back down the street.

  Both figures had moved out of the ribbon of lamplight. I could not see anything clearly now. The sun had set in earnest, and it seemed with every passing moment, the darkness pressed against the earth like a thick blanket settling against the ground.

  A dark shape extracted itself from the scene of the attack and dashed around the far corner of the street, disappearing into the night, missing the puddles of light entirely.

  Is that Mr. Hill? I thought hopefully.

  I knew it was not. The attacker fled…and all I did was watch.

  I looked up and down the road, hoping to catch sight of anyone who could help me.

  The businesses on either side of the street had been closed for nearly an hour now and the windows in the church remained dark. None of the families that I had passed by were coming down this way.

  It was up to me to see if the victim needed help. If he was still alive.

  You are wasting time! I scolded myself.

  I could not wait another moment. Each passing second could compromise his life.

  I balled my hands into fists so tight that my fingernails dug into the tender skin of my palms, as I put one foot in front of the other and quickly stepped over the barrier of shadows.

  My heart thundered in my chest as I hurried closer. Gravel crunched under my shoes. My breath came in painful, wrenching tugs.

  The shape of Mr. Hill remained still, even as the tip of my toe kicked a loosened piece of stone, causing it to scatter down the street and bounce off the wall.

  “Mr. Hill?” I chanced in a quavering whisper.

  There was no answer.

  A metallic scent assaulted my senses, coating my nose and the back of my throat, like rust being scrubbed from a filthy pot.

  I took a few more shaky steps toward him…until I stepped in something that squished, like mud.

  When I looked down, a winding trail led from the puddle at my feet. As I followed it with my eyes, I found it wound its way back to the heap that was Mr. Hill’s silent, motionless body.

  I had seen enough.

  I turned and ran. Ran faster than I had ever run in my life, leaving Mr. Hill there in the alley, lying in a pool of his own blood.

  2

  I did not stop running until I reached the house. I ignored people that gawked at me as I dashed past, and only managed to spit out a garbled apology to a man that my elbow bumped against, nearly sending him into the street. My lungs screamed for air but fear pushed me onward.

  I ran up the stairs, my stomach churning. I threw myself against the door, gasping for air, and it took me three times grasping at the handle to twist it open.

  I fell onto the floor of the foyer, my knees unable to hold me up any longer.

  “What is the meaning of this?”

  I looked up, panting, on my hands and knees, to see Mr. Fitzroy hurrying toward me.

  “It’s Mr. Hill,” I gasped quickly. “He’s in need of a doctor, if it isn’t already too late—and the police!”

  With the butler’s help, I struggled back to my feet. George appeared from nowhere and helped to set me down in a chair just inside the receiving parlor off the front foyer.

  With revulsion, I looked down at my shoes and saw the tinges of red near the toe of my right foot.

  “Anna? What is happening here?”

  I looked up at the sound of Mrs. Montford’s voice and her hurrying footsteps as she entered the room. She must have been alerted by the noise of my bursting into the house.

  As she drew near, Mr. Fitzroy stepped aside so that she could stand in his place.

  At once, she grabbed my chin and turned my face to the side, and then to the other side, as if looking for irregularities.

  “Are you injured?” she asked, her eyes narrowing. “Speak up, girl!”

  “I’m all right,” I said in a rush as she released me. “It’s Mr. Hill. I followed him down to the street where the old church sits and he went down a narrow street there beside the post office, into the shadows. Someone—I do not know who, because it was dark—attacked him. I think he’s dead.”

  Mrs. Montford’s strength faltered for only a moment as she absorbed the news. She sat down hard on a chair beside me. Then, her gaze sharpened and I could see her mind already at work. “Have the police been summoned?”

  “Not yet, ma’am,” I said.

  “Why ever not?” she snapped, and turned to Mr. Fitzroy and George. “Time is of the essence. Telephone the police, at once. And send some of the young men from the kitchens out into the street to find help. That may be just as quick.”

  George nodded and left the room.

  “You need to do your best to remain calm,” Mrs. Montford said to me. “Are you certain that he’s dead?”

  I nodded. “I—I saw his body, saw the blood from the knife that the attacker used.”

  “Did the attacker see you?” Mrs. Montford asked.

  I shook my head. “No, I do not think so,” I said.

  She let out a sigh of relief. “Thank heaven for that, at least. We might be in for a long night, now,” she said.

  We certainly would be.

  “Is there anything else that you wish to tell me?” she asked.

  “Not that I can think of, ma’am,” I said hollowly.

  “I cannot expect you to be of much use now, in your current state,” she said. “The police will be here soon. In the meantime, you should go rest in your room, away from prying eyes.”

  My heart skipped and I sat up straighter. “No, ma’am, I am fine. I should remain at your side.”

  Mrs. Montford held up a hand. “No,” she said. “I will not tell you again. Go and rest. You will need to have your thoughts in order when the police arrive.”

  I could not be sure if she was angry with me or not. Her stare was blank but firm. She said nothing further.

  I stood and curtsied. “Yes, ma’am,” I said, heavily.

  As I left the room, I heard her exhale heavily and say, “It will be a miracle if the authorities do not assume I had something to do with Mr. Hill’s death. After all, I was the last to see him.”

  I trudged up the stairs, thankful that I did not meet anyone on the way. I did not think I could bear explaining myself to them and knew full well that they would hear what happened soon enough.

  My new room was just down the hall from Mrs. Montford’s quarters. That allowed me to get to her sooner and it was a quieter part of the house, as well.

  It was a comfortable space, and while small, it had everything I needed. Mrs. Montford had given a few members of her staff some of her old furniture that had been rearranged, and I had received a handsome writing desk that had belonged to the late Colonel. I also had my trunk brought from Maidstone, which held all of my personal belongings. The bed, sitting beside the window, was made up with thick quilts and pillows. I never could sleep unless I was entirely covered in blankets.

  I closed the door behind me, crossed to the bed, and sank down upon it with a long exhale like the air being let out from a balloon.

  Another death right before my eyes. How was it that this kept happening to me?

  Numbness was all I could feel. It spread through the tips of my fingers, all the way up and down my arms. I should feel fear or sorrow or disgust. Yet I felt…nothing. Nothing at all.

  I heard a soft knock at the door.

  “Come in,” I muttered, not even caring to ask who it was before the door opened a slight crack.

  A pair of green eyes appeared. A quick glimpse of auburn hair told me that my friend and fellow maid Selina was just outside. “Can I come in?” she asked.

  “You heard already?” I asked. “Yes, you may come in.”

  She pushed the door open and hurried in, shutting it behind herself.

  “I am waiting for the police to arrive,” I said. “They have been sent for.”

&nbs
p; “I know,” Selina said, taking a cautious seat on the bed beside me. “George informed me just a moment ago. He said I should come see if you needed anything.”

  I said nothing but continued to stare at the baseboard along the wall.

  “He said you looked awful,” she went on. “And that you…you—”

  “It’s all true,” I said, both not wanting to hear her say it, but also not wanting to have to say it myself.

  A long, silent moment passed.

  “It is entirely possible that you did not see what you think you did,” Selina said in a low voice. “Perhaps with all you have been through, you might have thought you saw—”

  “No,” I said. “I saw it. I know for certain.”

  “George said that all you saw were shadows,” she said. “How could you be certain of anything that you did not see clearly?”

  I stopped and finally looked up at her.

  Her face brightened a bit as she saw some life return to my eyes. “It is possible,” she reiterated.

  “I…suppose it could be true,” I said. “But I saw blood.”

  “Did you, really?” Selina asked. “Are you certain?”

  I looked down at my shoe, and the smudge of red I thought I had seen was no longer visible.

  Was it possible that I had imagined it all?

  “Think of it this way,” Selina said. “Not only did we all have to endure the aftermath of the Colonel’s death, but you have only just returned from Brighton where you found yourself involved in the murder of one of the guests at the hotel where you were staying. The Colonel’s death alone has rattled us all, but then so soon after, you found yourself tangled in still more danger.”

  “And you think that would be enough for me to imagine a man’s death?”

  “I do,” Selina said, gently.

  It certainly sounded good. At once, I hoped it could be true. Perhaps the police would find nothing in that long narrow alley. Perhaps the two men had simply been fighting, as drunken fools often did. Perhaps what I had mistaken for blood would in fact turn out to be nothing more than mud or perhaps a broken bottle of wine.

  Hope steadied the beat of my heart ever so slightly.

  “Do you remember being a child, when you thought you saw monsters beneath your bed at night?” Selina asked. “How your eyes could utterly convince you that you had seen red, beady eyes and gnashing teeth?”