Constable Webber had never seen a more horrific sight in his
entire career; it was almost like something out of those Penny Dreadfuls. The
bath water was a pool of deep red, the half-sunken body like a shipwreck
marooned on the edge of it. The smell was metallic and rotten; repulsive. Most
of the gore was contained, fortunately, and allowed a certain distance from the
scene as he moved away from the far side of the room. Leaving Inspector Root and his assistant to
their observations and sketches of the scene, Webber made his way down the
stairs and across the foyer to the kitchen.
Seeing that their mistress had returned in their absence,
the butler and cook had crept into the silent house with some trepidation, fearing
a severe scolding for their negligence, only to discover the gristly sight of
their mistress dead in the bath. They had run shrieking in terror from the
house and encountered the startled Finlay returning up the lane with a brace of
birds. Finlay had sped off to fetch the constable post-haste, leaving the
butler and cook out on the drive in hysterics and refusing to darken the
doorstep.
Collecting the inspector and his assistant together with
some of his other officers, Constable Webber and the rest had ridden out to the
remote estate, and had quickly assessed the crime scene. Inspector Foot was
thorough in his observations, dictating his findings to his assistant, who
added additional sketches to a notebook while the constable took his report from
the servants.
The elderly butler looked even more worn and withered; the
cook trembling and shaking with fright. Across the kitchen table from them sat
the groundskeeper, a simple fellow who had once worked in Sir James’ mines,
slumped in sadness and shaking his head. It was this miserable group of
servants who had discovered the body earlier that morning, and had dashed off
to fetch him. There was no question that they were innocent in the affair: they
were a pitiful, worn-out lot, in a house that was slowly falling to disrepair. It
must have simply been a moment’s opportunity, the policeman thought; there
didn’t appear to be much worth stealing in the whole place, and the
disappointment was likely the reason for the vicious murder of the lady. The
house had been searched from top to bottom in case the assailant was still
present, but the hunt was fortunately fruitless; not another living soul was
found in the whole ramshackle manor.
The cook had nearly fainted when she discovered the cleaver
missing from the butcher block; she looked as if she wished to fly out the door
and never return to that awful place. No more could be got from her once she
noticed the missing implement; she merely crumpled against the wall and wept in
shaking hysterics. The butler blearily reiterated that nothing else was
missing; there wasn’t any silver left in the whole place, nor did the lady have
any significant jewelry or cash in the house, but he supposed it was possible,
however unlikely, that she had brought something back from London.
Finlay started suddenly, wide-eyed. “What of the young
‘uns?” he asked, worried. “Where are Master Thomas and Miss Lucille? Clear
forgot ‘em in the rush! And no-one in the attic, you say?”
“Who are they, then?” Webber queried.
“The children, Lady Sharpe’s son and daughter,” The butler
clarified. “The nursery is in the attic. Dear lord, what has happened to them?”
“There are children in residence?” the policeman exclaimed,
taken aback.
“Not infants, but yes,” replied the butler. “Master Thomas is
a lad of some twelve years, and Miss Lucille is a young lady of fourteen.”
Alarmed, the constable considered this new information.
There was no evidence of the siblings in the house, no clue as to their fate,
and while it was good that their bodies hadn’t been found in the house nor was
there any sign of violence against them, he had to consider that the two had
been either kidnapped or forcibly removed from the grounds. Had they been in
the house during the robbery? Had they witnessed the murder? Perhaps they had
been taken away to be silenced elsewhere. “Are you certain they were not here
when you arrived?” he asked sharply. “Is there anywhere they might have
hidden?”
“They rarely leave their rooms, sir,” Finlay answered. “But
if they did, I didn’t see them anywhere near the lane or on the lands. Please,
sir, might we go search for them? I’d not be easy if anything’s happened to
them.”
The constable nodded. “I’ll gather my men and we’ll go now;
those children must be found immediately.” He turned and began calling his
officers to him, informing them of this new crisis. Leaving Inspector Root to arrange the removal
of Lady Beatrice’s remains to the surgeon, Dr. Jones, he hurried to direct his
officers to comb the countryside on foot and horseback, searching along the
roads and fields for the two children.
Directing some of them to head west and south toward
Whitehaven and others north toward Carlisie, he turned toward the east roads
toward Farlam and Penrith. It was already midday, and threatening to rain. It
was doubtful the children could have reached even the closest town by foot on
their own, but he would not rest until every possibility was exhausted. They
were to regroup in Farlam at nightfall if there was no discovery, but Constable
Webber prayed it would not come to that.
For hours, the frantic man pressed on even as the rain fell
in a cooling curtain over the ruddy-tinted earth, soaking the thirsty hills
with fresh drops. The road was quickly becoming a slick of red mud as he rode
on, even when the clouds passed and the sun reappeared in the afternoon sky. He
hardly could believe his eyes when he spotted two little figures down the path,
walking hand in hand.
Frightened and shivering from the downpour that had soaked
them, the children were nevertheless a welcome sight to the policeman. They
appeared uninjured, but there was no doubt that they had endured some trauma:
Thomas’ eyes welled up with tears and Lucille pulled him closer when Webber
discovered them. They seemed struck mute by what they had suffered, not
answering any of his questions, but they allowed him to help them up on the
horse to continue to Farlam. The little town was not that far off by that time;
the poor things had likely been walking most of the day over rough ground. It was
only by chance that they had come back to the road and were spotted, for which
Constable Webber was greatly relieved.
He saw to their care when they arrived, making certain that
they were dried, warmed and fed, before
he regrouped with his officers and consulted with Inspector Root. The body had
been removed to Dr. Jones for examination, and Constable Webber wished nothing
more than to complete the day’s tasks and seek some respite from the whole
affair. Those poor children!
**
The funeral was sparsely attended but lavish, as directed by
the deceased’s sister, Lady Florence, and as provided in the few legal
documents from the Sharpe family’s London solicitors. The children still had
their mourning clothing from their father’s passing, fortunately, so there was
no delay in the proceedings.
The murder remained a mystery. Despite being in the house
while the crime was committed, the children insisted they hadn’t seen anything,
but had hidden in the attic until all was quiet below and fled in terror at the
first opportunity. They would not leave each other’s sides throughout the
entire time, insisting on sleeping in the same room; they would not speak to
anyone but each other unless directly addressed. Interviews with the former
staff of Allerdale Hall confirmed that the children’s temperaments had been
questionable before and all the more so since the deaths of their parents. The
boy had long been a sickly child, with an excitable nature and avid
imagination, but Lucille had often been seen riding on her pony in the hills
and was a sullen, sour girl for all her previous dutiful manner. Lucille had
appeared the more stoic of them, tending to her brother with soft tenderness
that aroused pity for the orphans from all that saw them.
No arrangement had been made for Lucille prior to Lady
Beatrice’s demise, but Lady Florence recalled her sister expressed some thought
to sending Lucille away to finishing school or even a convent but that there
had only been funds available for Thomas. Florence herself had only reluctantly
agreed to oversee Thomas’ long-overdue education in Whitehaven, and flatly
refused to accommodate Lucille: there weren’t any appropriate outlets for the
schooling of a young lady in Whitehaven; as a retiring spinster Lady Florence
did not maintain as much society as she had in her youth. Lucille greeted this news with a furious storm
of obscenity and curses. Her lack of tears or any sign of grief caused some
concern for the police, but her sudden outrage at being told her brother would
be leaving for school in Whitehaven without her alarmed them greatly.
“The poor young lady is insane with grief,” was the
professional opinion, and the suspicion of how innocent the girl was in her
mother’s death arose, only to be quickly dismissed. The possibility was simply
too horrifying to contemplate. What possible motive could Lucille have, even if
she was strong enough to commit so evil an act? Still, the girl’s mind had
become completely unhinged, and she was forced from her brother’s side.
Arrangements were made for Lucille to be committed to the
Cumberland and Westmorland Joint Lunatic Asylum, or Garlands Hospital as it was
more politely called, as a private patient. It was the best Florence could do
under the circumstances: she had been much affected by her sister’s marriage
nearly two decades earlier, and had remained a spinster bitter over her
feelings of Beatrice’s betrayal and loathing of Sir James. Having been cut off
from the Sharpes, she had never formed an attachment to her niece and nephew
and had no experience at all with the raising of children. Her fortunes, too,
had been so diminished as to be impoverished, and the woman was a near recluse,
living an almost monastic existence. Being charged with the burden of the
orphans’ care was not one she welcomed willingly.
“The girl obviously takes after her mad father,” Lady Florence
observed. “It is best that she is kept away from Thomas and receive proper
treatment from those more qualified than I. My nephew needs to apply his
attentions to his studies; he has been delayed too much already, and cannot be
distracted by concern for his sister.”
All of this was quite sensible and even charitable of the
middle-aged lady, and acceptable to both the law officers and the medical
experts involved. Documents were drawn up and all the arrangements made for
Miss Lucille Sharpe to become a private patient of Garlands Hospital in
Carlisle, including a stipend to be provided for her continued care, as long as
would be deemed necessary. Thomas was collected and taken to Whitehaven.
Neither of the children was consulted, of course; nor was Thomas informed of
Lucille’s arrangements. It would be better for him to assume she was sent
elsewhere for her continued education and health than to know the truth. They
hadn’t even been allowed to wish each other farewell before they were sent
their separate ways.
Allerdale Hall was closed, shuttered and locked up, until
the heir would return to claim his inheritance. The sole remaining servant,
Finlay, remained to look after the place and its grounds, but it would remain
deserted for over seven years. In time, the mystery of Lady Beatrice Sharpe’s
murder faded from memory as completely as pebbles sinking in the crimson mud of
the abandoned mines.
Slutty Yorick 