The Bride of Ashbyrn House Page 15

  Reaching out with trembling hands, I pop three paracetamol tablets into the palm of my hand and swallow them, chasing them down with water. I'm starving too, so I open the first tin of beans and tip them into my mouth. It's not exactly good, comforting food, but it's better than nothing and I quickly open the second tin. The pain in my leg is getting worse and worse, but hopefully the paracetamol will at least take the edge off. Besides, the agony isn't quite as bad as before.

  Taking a look at my watch, I see that it's a little after 11pm. Just as I'm about to marvel at the fact that I must have slept all day, I see that the date is the twelfth, which means I've actually been here in the bedroom for three days. It was the night of the ninth when I threw Charlie out, but I don't understand how I can have been on the bed for so long.

  Hearing a faint bumping sound nearby, I turn and see that Bob is still in the corner, still watching me. He looks weak, but he slowly gets to his feet and comes over to the bed. As he does so, his tail starts wagging slightly, as if he's pleased to see that I'm awake.

  “Have you been down there all this time?” I ask, reaching for him and hauling him onto the bed. I can feel his ribs, so I grab the second tin of beans and tip the rest of the contents into my hands. He gobbles them up, and he drinks eagerly when I hold the glass of water out for him.

  What the hell has been going on here?

  Turning, I look toward the open doorway. Clearly somebody else is in the house, and it's not hard to guess that Charlie must be behind all of this. I guess he must really hate me after all, although when I look back down at my left leg I can't help noticing that he seems to have done a good job of fixing me up. Charlie's never really been the nurse type, so maybe he got some help.

  “Hello!” I shout, figuring I might as well let him know that I'm awake. “Charlie, are you downstairs? We need to talk!”

  I wait, but all I hear is the sound of the fire crackling, along with Bob's continued attempts to drink from the cup.

  “Did you see him?” I ask, turning to the dog. My vision is better now, but I still feel a little weak. I guess I lost a lot of blood. Only Charlie would actually think to put whiskey next to my bed at a time like this, although I can't deny that I could use a pick-me-up.

  As Bob continues to drink water, I grab the whiskey glass and down its contents in one. Whiskey shouldn't make me feel better right now, but it does.

  “Charlie!” I yell. “This is insane! I need actual medical help!”

  No reply.

  “Charlie!”

  I wait, and this time I hear a door creaking in the distance. Somebody's definitely downstairs, but I guess they think they've got me cornered up here in the room. They might be right, too, although I reckon I could maybe manage to hobble down the stairs. Then again, I'd make a lot of noise, and my captor would undoubtedly come to force me back into the bedroom. I need to be smart here, but so far I'm all out of ideas.

  “I have to go down,” I whisper, turning to Bob. “I have to! I can't just sit here and wait for him to...”

  My voice trails off.

  “I don't know what he wants to do to me,” I continue, “but he was my friend once, before the bachelor party. I can talk to him, I know I can. He's just angry.”

  Bob lets out a faint whimper, and I can't say I blame him. I give him a quick stroke on the neck, before turning and slowly easing myself over to the edge of the bed. My leg is still hurting, but it's a pain I can deal with for now, so I carefully put all my weight on my undamaged right leg and lean against the wall for support as I haul myself up. As I do so, I knock the bedside table and send the empty whiskey glass crashing to the floor, and then I start hopping over to the doorway.

  With the amount of noise I've made, I'm sure Charlie already knows that I'm up and about.

  “I'm coming down!” I shout. “This has gone too far! Do you hear me? I'm coming down there!”

  I start hobbling along the corridor. A moment later, I hear Bob scrabbling after me, but for now I just have to focus on getting to the stairs. There's no sound of anyone moving about in any of the lower rooms, so I guess Charlie isn't panicking just yet. I don't blame him. In this state, I'm no match for anyone, but I have to try. By the time I get to the top of the stairs and look down toward the hallway, I'm starting to wonder whether Charlie has left.

  Maybe he thinks he's taught me a lesson, and he's done now.

  It takes forever for me to get down the stairs. Each step causes a fresh bump to my broken leg, sending a wave of agony through my body. I try not to cry out, just in case Charlie is lurking in one of the nearby rooms and listening with glee to my suffering, but eventually I can't help groaning as I reach the halfway point. I've begun to sweat again, like an absolute madman, and for a moment I can't quite believe that I'll ever make it to the bottom of the stairs, much less that I'll actually be able to find my phone and call for help.

  “Charlie!” I hiss through gritted teeth. “You have to stop this! You've made your point!”

  I wait, but all I hear is the sound of flames roaring in the study's fireplace. When this is all over, I'm going to block up all those bloody fireplaces and just use the central heating.

  “You're going too far, Charlie,” I whisper, feeling for a moment as if I might pass out again. “I'm sorry. I know it was my fault, and I'm sorry.”

  Hearing a scratching sound at the top of the stairs, I look up just in time to see Bob coming into view. He stops and looks at me with mournful eyes, and I quickly realize that I have to keep going.

  Carefully maneuvering myself down to the next step, I can already hear Bob coming after me. He's a loyal dog, I'll give him that, and he sticks with me as I finally get down to the hallway. Out of breath and struggling to deal with the throbbing agony in my left leg, I pause for a moment and lean back against the wall, only for Bob to nudge my arm and then lick my hand.

  “It's okay,” I tell him. “All I have to do is find my phone and call for help. Everything'll be fine.”

  Easier said than done.

  I take a moment to think back to earlier, and finally I decide that I must have left my phone in the kitchen. Getting to my feet would be too painful, so I decide to drag myself across the hallway and take the quickest route to the kitchen, which means going through the drawing room. After gritting my teeth again, I start hauling my way across the floorboards, while trying to use the pain as extra motivation.

  And then, suddenly, I look through into the study and see that not only is the fire burning, but a glass of whiskey has been set close to my laptop and candles are burning next to the desk. It's almost as if somebody has set the room up perfectly, ready for me to get to work.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Katinka - 1859

  “Oh, it's quite awful!” Mother sobs as I sit comforting her in the drawing room. “My poor Pippa! What kind of monster would do such a thing?”

  “The world is full of awful people,” I reply, leaning down to kiss the top of her head. “This is why we need a man here. Someone to protect us.”

  “But she was so sweet,” she whimpers. “So innocent...”

  “Yes,” I mutter, as I hear footsteps approaching the room. “She was innocent, wasn't she? I'm sure that when she met the person who ended her life, she had no idea she was in danger. But often, I fear, it is the sweet and innocent who most attract the monstrous in this world.”

  I turn just in time to see that the magistrate, Mr. Pollock, has reached the door. He pauses for a moment, before I nod to let him know that he might enter.

  “Is there any word?” Mother asks, getting to her feet as tears stream down her face. “Have you discovered who did this awful thing to my youngest girl?”

  “There can be no doubt that Pippa was murdered,” he replies gravely. “I shan't go into the details, but suffice to say her head had been beaten most cruelly against a rock, and her dress was torn. There was also...” He hesitates, and I can see the sense of shock in his eyes. “There was also signs of damag
e to her body,” he adds finally. “Evidently the poor girl was subjected to a quite ferocious assault of a sexual nature.”

  “With sticks and such things?” I ask, forcing myself to suppress a smile.

  He nods. “Indeed. I shall spare you the rest of the details.”

  Mother collapses on one of the armchairs, sobbing hysterically. I myself feel rather calm, but I suppose I should show some compassion and sorrow. I sit next to her and offer some comfort by placing a hand on her shoulder, even though I feel deep down that she is becoming somewhat histrionic. Pippa's death is undoubtedly a shock, but I had hoped that she might be a little more restrained about the whole thing. Besides, she needs to stay focused on my impending wedding.

  “I want to assure you both,” Mr. Pollock continues, “that we are going to find whoever did this. Obviously some brute intruded upon your property and targeted poor Pippa. There can't be many people in the area who'd be capable of such an awful act, so I feel confident that soon we'll have somebody apprehended. And when that happens, there'll be no need to delay the meting-out of justice. We have a perfectly good set of gallows in the town square, and I shall put the miscreant to death. I most certainly do not wish to call in outside forces to take charge of the investigation. Here in Turthfeddow, we deal our own brand of justice.”

  “Meanwhile,” I add, forcing a smile as I look down at Mother, “we must ensure that Pippa is buried swiftly. Before the wedding.”

  “Perhaps the wedding should be postponed,” a voice says suddenly.

  Turning, I see Charles standing in the doorway. Ashen-faced and clearly in shock, he looks as if he might faint at any moment. I must admit to feeling a little disappointed by his reaction, too. Am I surrounded by weak-bellied fools?

  “Nonsense,” I tell him. “We shall bury Pippa, and then the wedding can rouse all our spirits.”

  “Katinka,” he continues, “do you really think that, in the circumstances, it would be right to -”

  “Yes!” I say firmly. “And Mother agrees with me!” I turn to her. “Don't you, Mother?”

  She sniffs back more tears. “I don't know, darling. Perhaps Charles is right, perhaps -”

  I squeeze her hand tight, tight enough to hurt her fingers.

  She lets out a faint gasp, but it's clear that she gets the message.

  “I suppose I agree,” she whimpers finally. “I mean...”

  Her voice trails off, and there is fear in her tear-filled eyes.

  “I should go and attend to the removal of the body,” Mr. Pollock mutters, turning and heading out of the room, leaving us in silence.

  “Pippa would not want her murder to stand in the way of our future,” I continue, hoping very much that Charles will come to understand my way of seeing things. “She would want life at Ashbyrn House to go on. And with the preparations having come so far, it would be very difficult to cancel at such a late moment. Why, some of the guests might even have set off by now! What would people think?”

  “They'd think...” Charles pauses. “They'd think that your sister has been murdered, Katinka, and that a little decorum is -”

  “Nonsense!” I hiss, struggling now to control my anger. “The wedding shall go ahead, and this is final. I shall see to the arrangements for the funeral myself, and all shall be well with the world. In fact, I think I shall go and start making preparations right now.”

  Mother is still a weeping mess, so I suppose there's nothing more I can do for her at the moment. I leave her on the armchair and step past Charles, making my way to the door.

  “You should leave tonight,” I whisper to him. “There is nothing more for you to do at Ashbyrn House before the wedding.”

  “I meant what I said about the church,” he replies, hurrying after me.

  “I know you did,” I continue, stopping and turning to him with such suddenness that he almost runs straight into me. “But that's by the by, Charles. I should think you know better than to argue with me.”

  I wait for a reply, but now there seems to be a hint of fear in his eyes.

  “The church shall stand for all time,” I say firmly. “You are a man of business, are you not? So I am sure you'll be able to find some other way to make money once you take control of Ashbyrn House. That, after all, is one of the reasons I am marrying you. You are supposed to be possessed of a fine mind. I do hope you'll show some evidence of that quality at some point.”

  “We shall delay the wedding,” he replies. “We must, Katinka!”

  “Perhaps he's right,” Mother whimpers, still dabbing at her eyes. “Katinka, please... We cannot go ahead with such festivities, not at such a sorrowful time. Please, show some respect for your poor dead sister.”

  “Respect?” I reply, shocked by the pair of them. “Sometimes, I think I am the only person in this entire family who knows what the word even means. Why do you not show respect for my wedding plans? They cannot possibly be canceled at such short notice!”

  I wait for one of them, or preferably both, to admit that I am right, but instead they stare at me with gormless expressions.

  “This wedding is going ahead,” I continue finally, “and there will be no more debate on the subject. I hope that neither of you intend to test me on this matter. Please, be assured that I shall get my way. I hardly imagine that either of you could doubt me. Not if you profess to know me at all.”

  A short while later, alone in my room with the door locked, I take the blade to the other side of my waist. I cannot allow Pippa's unfortunate death to become a distraction. My wedding remains the most important matter at hand, and I shall make the others see that. This time in a week, I shall be married to Charles, and the future glory of Ashbyrn House shall be assured.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Owen - Today

  “Quiet, Bob,” I whisper, as I keep typing. “I'm working. You mustn't disturb me when I'm working.”

  The dog is fussing around my feet, clawing at the chair-leg in an increasingly desperate attempt to get my attention. I know he needs food and water, and he probably needs to pee as well, but right now I'm in the zone with my writing and I can't possibly take a break. Even the pain in my leg seems like a trivial problem right now, partly thanks to some stronger painkillers that somehow made their way from the bathroom through to the study. And partly, I suppose, because time has begun to heal the wound. Perhaps the bone wasn't even fractured at all. Perhaps it was only bruised.

  I swear, it's almost as if Charlie pushed me to breaking point and then decided to help me work.

  And the words are flowing, maybe even faster than before. Several more keys on my laptop have now been worn down until their letters are no longer showing, but I can touch-type just fine. Checking the word count, I find that I've added another twenty-five thousand to the sixty thousand from the other day, but I'm still barely halfway through the story. It's as if somehow I'm able to write in a kind of daze, ignoring the pain in my body, although I have to admit that staring at a screen for so long is starting to make my eyes sore.

  My back hurts, too. Probably from all the hunched typing, but there'll be time to fix that later.

  “Seven buckets,” I read out-loud from the screen, as I double-check the last sentence I wrote, “all in a row.”

  Grabbing the whiskey glass, I take a last sip. The bottle is somewhere nearby, but I'll get a refill later. Setting the empty glass back down, I focus on the screen as I type furiously. There are a couple of creaking sounds nearby, and Bob lets out a harried groan, but I'm barely aware of anything beyond the screen's edge. The screen is the world, or at least it's my world right now. The only thing that matters is what I've typed at this desk.

  And then, barely thinking, I glance at the whiskey glass and see that it's full again.

  Stopping for a moment, I look around the room. There's nobody in here, and I can't believe Charlie could have snuck in and refilled the glass without being noticed, but somebody topped me up again. I turn and look at the wall, where I see to my
surprise that several more spiders have been crushed against the cracks. Did I do that?

  Outside, the first rays of morning light are starting to break through the trees.

  “Hello?” I call out, but my voice sounds small and fearful in the silence.

  Figuring that maybe I poured the whiskey myself, and that I'm simply in some kind of daze, I take a sip and then get back to work. Bob claws at my right leg, and I gently nudge him away; this happens a couple more times, before he finally seems to get the message and I'm vaguely aware of him heading out of the room. I'll make it up to him later by playing with him on the lawn, but for now I just have to keep working. Checking the word count, I find that I'm now up to thirty thousand for the day, which means the new book is getting close to the magic hundred thousand mark. Then again, there's still so much further to go.

  A moment later I feel a hand on my shoulder, running to the base of my neck. I remember when Vanessa used to walk past me while I was writing; sometimes she'd touch my shoulder like this, just to let me know that she was still around. After all, she understood that I had a tendency to disappear into my work. It feels good to have that sensation again, even if I quickly realize that it must have been all in my head. Vanessa is long gone, and I'm all alone in the house.

  “It's okay,” I whisper, the way I used to whisper to Vanessa, even as I feel her fingertips running across my shoulders again. “I'll be done soon.”

  I don't look up, not even as I sense someone walking around the desk. There's no point looking, since I know full well that my mind is simply playing tricks on me. Even when I hear footsteps heading away, moving toward the door, I keep my eyes fixed on the screen. All that matters right now is my work, and I can't let my addled mind put a bunch of visions and hallucinations in the way.

  Vanessa understood.

  She accepted that my work was important.

  Finally, just as I'm getting to a crucial part of the book, I feel a sudden shooting pain in my fingers. Letting out a gasp, I sit back in the chair and stairs at my hands, which seem for a moment to have seized up after typing for so long. My fingers are all bent and gnarled, and I can't manage to move them, although the sensation quickly passes and I'm able to straighten them properly.