by M C Beaton
“Anyway,” went on Lady Henley, “why don’t you go for a walk in the woods tomorrow and explore. You won’t get lost. There’s a huge tree out in front of the house that’s been blasted by lightning. You can see it sticking up for miles.”
Kitty said that she had planned to spend the morning writing letters.
“Worst thing you could do,” said Lady Henley. It’ll start you brooding. No—exercise is the thing.”
By morning when the sun was once again sparkling on the sea and the birds singing in the woods, Kitty decided it would be a good idea to go exploring after all. Lady Henley walked out to the entrance steps with her. “Go that way,” she said, waving a piece of buttered toast in the direction of the east. “Supposed to be some sort of old Roman fort there.”
Kitty set off into the woods with a feeling of relief at leaving her hostess behind. She could not understand her burning desire to put as much distance between herself and the house as possible, but she walked on into the thicker part of the woods, occasionally stopping to untangle her skirt from a briar or to watch the squirrels foraging for food in the undergrowth. The trees grew taller and thicker and the woods became quieter. Nothing seemed to stir except the topmost branches of the trees rustling and sighing as they were swept by the wind from the sea. Turning over the puzzle of her husband and Veronica Jackson, wondering who to believe, Kitty suddenly became aware of her surroundings and realized that she was tired and hungry and that the sun was high overhead, meaning that it must be around noon.
She looked up for a sign of the blasted tree that Lady Henley had mentioned but the trees in this part of the woods were too tall. With the beginnings of a feeling of unease, she started to make her way back. After walking for what seemed miles, her stockings torn by briars, and a blister beginning to form on her heel, Kitty found herself among some smaller trees and looking across, she could see the top of the blasted tree on the horizon. With a sigh of relief, she began to make her way toward it.
After several miles more, she sat down and nearly cried with panic and exhaustion. The sun was beginning to slide down the sky and the shadows of the woods were lengthening. Although she tried to keep her eyes on it, the dead tree that was her landmark seemed to move and shift, dancing among the other trees from west to southwest as if it were enchanted. Kitty sat very still and listened to see if she could hear any sounds of human life to guide her. Then she heard it. Away to her left came the faint slurring sound of the sea. She plunged back into the undergrowth and followed the sound. In a surprisingly short time, she found herself peering through a mass of dead shrubbery at the sea. Taking off her boots, she gingerly stepped into the water which came up to her knees and started to wade back along the shore. Dusk had fallen by the time she edged around the last of the trees and found herself on the little beach at Pevvy Chase. Figures came running down the lawn to meet her and she could distinguish her hostess’s vast bulk in the gathering gloom.
“We’ve been searching all day for you,” gasped Lady Henley. “This is our local magistrate, Sir Henry Gibbons. He’s had his men combing the woods all afternoon.”
Lady Henley led her into the hall and she found herself being addressed by the tall, thin figure of the magistrate. “You really should not wander around these woods by yourself,” said Sir Henry reprovingly. “Anyone from these parts will tell you that it’s uncommonly easy to lose your way.”
To Kitty’s surprise, she heard Lady Henley agreeing. “Just what I told her myself,” said her hostess with a bland smile. “But these young gels will wander off on their own.”
Kitty was too tired to argue. She allowed Jenkins to lead her off to her room and change her torn and soiled clothes. The maid seemed unusually nervous and kept glancing at the door. Finally Jenkins said in a whisper, “If you was to know of a girl what had a bad background but was reformed-like and a very good maid, would you take her on, my Lady?”
Kitty looked at her in surprise. “I’m sure I would take on anyone you could recommend. Did she do something bad?”
“Well, my Lady,” said Jenkins, still looking anxiously at the door and pleating her apron between her trembling fingers, “this here girl come from a terribly poor family, my Lady. She fell in love with this young man. A clerk he was, a bit above her in station. Well one day this young man asks her to go walking with him, but she had nothing to wear that you would call anywheres nice.
“So this girl, my Lady, saw this real pretty shawl in a shop, just a-lying on the counter where a customer who had been looking at it had left it. Well, she thought as how lovely it would look and how it would cover her shabby old dress and ’fore you know what had happened, she’d stuffed it into her reticule and hopped it out onto the street. She was caught a few yards from the shop door, tried, and sent to Holloway Prison.”
Kitty’s senses seemed suddenly sharpened by fatigue. “You’re talking about yourself, aren’t you Jenkins?” she said gently.
The maid burst into tears. “Oh yes, my Lady. Please get me away from Lady Henley or she’ll do us both harm.”
“Oh, come, come,” said Kitty. “Lady Henley has gone out of her way to take care of me.”
Jenkins bent her head close to Kitty’s. “How come then she sent you off into them woods? I heard her. How come she got you away from them two men on the train? ’Cause they was Scotland Yard men, that’s why. How come—”
She broke off with her hands to her mouth as Lady Henley entered.
“If you’re finished here, Jenkins,” snapped Lady Henley, “get about your duties.
Jenkins scurried out with her head bowed. “Has she been gossipping?” asked Lady Henley.
Kitty shook her head. “She never said a word,” she lied. Her hostess gave a fat smile. “Feel up to a bit of dinner?”
Kitty refused and said she would settle for a tray in her room and bade her large hostess a firm good night.
She was finally left alone with the beginnings of terror. She must try to speak some more to Jenkins. But Lady Henley could not be trying to harm her. It had been Veronica Jackson all along. And with a bitter stab of jealousy, Kitty did so want it to be Veronica Jackson. Why, Lady Henley had hardly enough energy to move across the room!
But she was to change her mind on the following morning, when Lady Henley arrived at the breakfast table in tweeds and strong boots and announced that they were going for a walk. Kitty protested that she was still too tired after her adventure of the day before. “Nonsense,” said Lady Henley. “I need my exercise and after all I’ve done for you, Kitty, I don’t think it’s too much to ask you to help me take my exercise.” She pouted like some grotesque baby and Kitty felt obliged to humor her.
The day was overcast and windy. Great, ragged clouds flew across the stormy black surface of the sea and the trees around the old house waved their arms and let out a loud groaning sigh as the ill-assorted pair walked off down the driveway.
Kitty began to feel reassured. Lady Henley kept up an amusing flow of conversation of what society was like in Victorian times. She seemed so jolly and normal that Kitty decided the only thing sinister about Lady Henley was her appetite. She chatted amiably, trying to keep worried thoughts about her husband at the back of her mind, unaware that Peter Chesworth was scouring the countryside looking for her.
The two plainclothesmen had been given a tongue-lashing by the furious Albert Grange and then every station between Cowes and London had been painstakingly searched. No one had noticed three women alighting from the train. They seemed to have disappeared into thin air.
Kitty was strictly a town girl but even her inexperienced eyes noticed that the surrounding countryside was badly in need of cultivation. Some of the tangled hedges practically met above their heads and they seemed to walk further and further away from the house down endless tunnels of green gloom.
At last Lady Henley broke through a gap in the hedge and led Kitty across an uncultivated stretch of field toward a farm worker’s cottage at the far end. “One
of the tenants,” she explained. “We’ll call in and have a bite of luncheon.”
Kitty agreed with relief, looking forward to sitting down and resting her aching feet.
Lady Henley rapped smartly on the door with her walking stick. There was a sound of slow steps within and then the door opened.
With an evil smile creasing his white slab of a face, stood Kitty’s ex-butler, Checkers.
Kitty half turned to run when a smacking blow from Lady Henley’s walking stick struck her on the side of the head and she fell unconscious.
When she regained consciousness she was tied firmly to a chair with her hands behind her back. On the other side of the kitchen table sat Lady Henley and Checkers, chatting amiably as if it were the most natural thing in the world to go around hitting young girls on the head and tying them up.
“What are you going to do with me?” whispered Kitty.
“Oh, you’re awake, are you?” said Lady Henley amiably. “Well, I see no harm in letting you know what you’re in for, my Lady. In fact I’ll kind of enjoy it.”
Her stomach gave a faint protesting rumble. “Here, Checkers, got any food in this rat hole?”
Checkers rubbed his fat hands obsequiously. “I have indeed, my Lady. I’ve got two of the tastiest pigeon pies you ever saw and a spot of mild to wash it down.”
“Not cooked by your wife, I hope,” asked Lady Henley, forgetting Kitty in the anxiety of the moment.
“No,” said the butler reassuringly. “Cooked by a good woman down in the village what is partial to me, you might say.”
“Well, stop leering, man, and serve it. I don’t suppose she wants her ‘last supper.’” Lady Henley grinned at Kitty.
When the food was served she picked up the whole pie in her hands and began to tell Kitty her fate between huge bites.
“I’ve established with the magistrate that you are in the habit of walking off on your own.” She saw Kitty was about to speak and waved the pie at her. “I know what you’re thinking. The servants. Not a hope. They’re all jailbirds and know when they’re well-off, eh, Checkers? They’ll all swear blind you went wandering off again. Now where was I? Oh, yes. What’s to become of you. Well, something pretty nasty I assure you.
“Checkers here is going to rape you and strangle you and then leave your body in the woods, ain’t you, Checkers?”
An unholy smile of glee crossed Lady Henley’s face. She put down the pie and stared at Kitty. “You ain’t a virgin, are you?”
Kitty blushed painfully and bowed her head. Lady Henley threw back her head and laughed till the tears ran down her fat cheeks. “Well, if that ain’t rich! Going to have a bit of fun, eh Checkers?”
The butler sniggered and looked at Kitty, his tongue sliding across his pale lips. Kitty wondered why she didn’t die of fright.
Lady Henley finally finished both pies and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Why do you want to do this to me? Why?” sobbed Kitty.
Lady Henley looked down at her. “Because you’re in the way. If you die, I get your mother’s money. And I’ve nearly killed that old bag off with drugs anyway. That’s why your mama’s been acting so weird. And if I break the news of your rape and murder to her right way, it’ll really turn her mind. With any luck she’ll commit suicide and save me the trouble. I’ve been filling her mind up with a lot of filth about your husband so she’ll probably think he did it.” She patted Kitty on the head. “Well, toodle-oo. Have fun,” and with that she lumbered out the door, leaving Kitty and Checkers to stare at each other.
An exhausted Lord Chesworth and Mr. Grange sat in the study of the Thackerays’ home and looked at each other in despair.
Albert Grange rubbed his head. “It’s as if she’s vanished into thin air. She could be anywhere.”
Peter sighed and fought against the fatigue that threatened to overwhelm him. “Lady Henley hasn’t even got a country place. She sold up over a year ago.”
“What and who was she before she married?” asked the detective.
“Before my time,” shrugged Peter. “I remember some sort of gossip about her family. Father went mad and shot himself, though it was pretty well hushed up. One of these old county families. No money. But they can trace their line back to the Norman Conquest. There’s a Burke’s Peerage on that table beside you if you want to check up on it.”
The detective flicked idly over the pages. “Ah, here we are… Henley… let’s see… married Amelia Pevvy… daughter of… what?”
“What is it?” asked Peter.
“Just that we’re absolute fools. Amelia Pevvy of Pevvy Chase—a manor about fourteen miles from where we’re sitting,” groaned Albert.
“Where’s that insufferable ass, Dwight-Hammond?” roared Peter, erupting into the hall.
“What is it?” asked Henry Dwight-Hammond sulkily, emerging from the drawing room with an adoring deb on his arm.
“We need your auto and you’re going to drive us,” said Peter, disengaging the young man from his partner and pushing him toward the door.
“Here, I say!” expostulated Henry. “You could at least ask nicely.”
“We haven’t time to say ‘pretty please,’ you unmitigated ass,” roared Peter. “Get in that damned car or I’ll tear you apart.” His face was white with strain and his eyes blazed with fury.
Henry gave in with bad grace. Albert spread an ordnance survey map on his lap, and with the help of a lantern, navigated the motorcar along the country roads.
Twice they took the wrong turning and twice precious minutes were lost while all three raged at one another. At last they turned into the gloomy driveway of Pevvy Chase and there in the light of the car lamps, they could make out a female figure running toward them. Gulping and panting for breath, the terrified figure of Jenkins looked up at them. She clutched Peter’s hand. “Lady Henley took away your missus for a walk today,” she gasped. “But she came back alone.”
“Get in the car,” snapped Peter. They drove up to the entrance of the house in anxiety-ridden silence.
Lady Henley was ensconced in the dining room. She threw down her napkin and glared at the three men. Jenkins had slipped away as quietly as a shadow.
“What do you mean by bursting in here?” demanded Lady Henley.
“Where’s my wife?” roared Peter.
Lady Henley gave a fat shrug. “Don’t know,” she said with magnificent indifference and then glared out of the window. “What are all these policemen doing galumphing about my lawns?”
“I must ask you to come along with me for questioning,” said Albert Grange, stepping forward.
Lady Henley’s mouth took on a bluish tinge. “My heart pills,” she gasped. She groped in her reticule and extracted a small box, opened it and popped a pill in her mouth. Then she turned to Peter Chesworth with a gloating smile. “By the time you find your little wife, you won’t much like what’s left of her.” Her eyes suddenly bulged and she made several horrible gurglings in the back of her throat.
“She’s taken poison!” shouted Grange.
There was an almighty crash and Lady Henley fell across the dining table. She died, as she had lived, with her face in a plate of food.
Albert Grange blew his whistle and several policemen burst into the room. “Round up the servants and find that maid of Lady Henley’s.”
Cowering and trembling, Jenkins was at last dragged into the room. Albert Grange motioned to the girl to sit down and poured her a glass of brandy. Lord Chesworth could only wonder at the little detective’s patience. “Now, look here, my girl. Drink up your brandy and then tell us if you have any idea where Lady Chesworth might be.”
The maid drank the brandy in one gulp and a little color crept into her pallid cheeks. “I followed them a good bit,” she said in a whisper. “I’ll take you as far as I can.” She looked at the dead body of Lady Henley. “At least she can’t hurt me anymore.”
They hurried her out to the motorcar, Peter Chesworth praying unde
r his breath that his wife was still alive.
After Lady Henley had left them, Checkers had started to move toward Kitty, unbuckling the belt of his trousers. Then he hesitated and looked out of the window. “Better wait till dark,” he muttered. “You won’t be going anywhere, my Lady. You can have a nice afternoon thinking about your death.” He bent and slobbered a kiss on her averted face, and with a fat chuckle, took himself off.
For an hour Kitty sat helplessly, feeling sick and dizzy from the blow on her head. She realized it would be no use screaming or they would have gagged her. The rising gale wailed through the trees outside, intensifying the loneliness. Kitty tried to move her wrists but they were so tightly bound that her hands had gone numb. She looked across at the latch on the door. It was a simple iron catch which pushed up to open it. Kitty felt sure that Checkers had not bothered to lock the door. Twisting her head, she could see that the chair she was bound to was of light cane. She gave a tentative jump and found that she had bumped a little way across the floor.
It was then that terror flooded her as a small ray of hope began to creep into her mind. Without hope, she had been numb. With icy sweat trickling down her body, she tried another jump and got nearer still to the door. Another few bounces and she was under the latch. Muttering a desperate prayer, she lowered her head and banged it on the iron latch. It bounced up and the door swung open on the windy field and the road to freedom.
Her legs trembling and her heart pounding, Kitty bounced out into the field—and stuck fast as the legs of the chair sank into the soft earth.
She would not give up now! Still bound tightly to the chair, she fell to the ground and started to roll to the hedge at the edge of the field. Over and over, her face digging into the soft ground, straining every muscle, she finally rolled into a ditch and stared up at the storm-torn sky.
Kitty turned over on her side and tried to control the terrible trembling that racked her body from head to foot. Her eye caught the dull gleam of a rusty scythe blade a few yards from where she lay. She wrenched herself over and over, her face stung by long nettles, until she was lying against it. It took her fifteen minutes of panting and straining, until she got her wrists into position against the dull blade. She could only move them a little way up and down the scythe. A crow perched on the edge of the broken scythe handle and watched her every move like a bird of ill-omen. The strands suddenly parted all at once and she bit her lip until the blood came to stifle the cry of pain which rose to her lips as the feeling began to return to her hands. Precious minutes were spent massaging them until she was finally able to free her feet.
