Chapter 3: The killer

The party from the kitchen were laughing and talking as they went up the stairs, the Vicar and Professor bolstered by the brandy and the humour of the confusing situation now evident. 
"Here we are, Safe and so..." Miss Winshaw’s introductory remark trailed off in mid-flow as the pale, anxious faces of Lucy and one of the housemaids intercepted them. “What is it? What's happened?"

“There, umm, there has been an accident." Lady Esterton looked perturbed and spoke hesitatingly. 
The housemaid was quick to correct her, "No not an accident Madame, a murder. There has been a murder." 
There was a shocked silence and then the colonel spoke "Is this true Lucy? Has someone been killed?" Lucy nodded and sank down onto the top stair. Each face had been drained of colour and, if it hadn't been for the brandy in their stomachs, it seems likely Gerald and Lawrence would have fainted again. 

Miss Winshaw looked truly frightened as she choked out her question. "Not, not Belle?" the crumpled lady on the stairs shook her head. The housemaid hurried to explain, "Don't worry Madam  Winshaw, Madam Avery is quite alright, she's just gone to telephone for the Constable." The relief in Ginny Winshaw's face was instant and she let out the breath she had been holding.

Mrs Patterson, although acting the part of gossiping housewife, was actually very perceptive and realised that left only one person. She lowered herself onto the stairs next to Lady Esterton and put her arm around her shoulders. 
"Oh my dear, I'm so sorry." There was a silence as the others cottoned on. She said nothing but a single tear rolled down her porcelain cheek. The housemaid looked puzzled but knew it was not her place to speak so she held her silence.

The Vicar knelt down and placed his hand on Lucy's knee and looked into her tear filled eyes. 
"I'm sure it must be a great shock to you, my child and I know nothing I say can ease the pain but just know he is with the lord now." Again there was silence.

Then a door creaked and footsteps came along the corridor. The huddled group looked up as Lord Esterton came into view. Then, for the second time that evening, Lawrence Ambleson lost consciousness. 

This time they wasted no time and he awoke, a few moments later, to wipe the water out of his eyes that Mrs Patterson had hurriedly poured on him from a vase of flowers she had spotted on a side table. Again, very little attention was paid to him as he returned to wakefulness as there were much more interesting matters at hand.

 Everyone looked slightly shocked that the presumed murder victim was, once again, very much alive. Very much might be a stretch as the man who came towards them looked to be on the verge of falling into an abyss and not returning.

He was trying to remain composed and there were no tears on his face but there was evidence there had been. His eyes were very raw and his white cheeks had blotches of red grief on them. Around his eyes were very black shadows, his shoulders slumped slightly and he looked to have aged 20-years. There was scarlett blood on his hands and clothes that perfectly matched his jacket's red silk lining. He suddenly stumbled and put his hand against the wall to stop himself falling. When he straightened himself and moved away, a red handprint was left on the cream wallpaper. 

It seemed to the group on the stairs, to be something from a nightmare. He stopped and stood stock still for a moment staring blankly into a space just to the left of the Vicar’s head. The moment stretched on and on. He showed no signs of moving. Nobody spoke. Nobody knew what to say. Everybody was looking at one thing and one thing only: the knife he was clutching in his left hand. 

He suddenly noticed where they were looking and his grip loosened. The knife slipped from his hand and landed with a thud on the thick carpet. Then, his eyes went back and he sank to his knees. He put his head in his blood covered hands and wept. 

When Sergeant Crossley arrived 15 minutes later, he was greeted with a strange scene. Miss Avery and Mrs Patterson were sat on a sofa beside a tray of drinks in the hall with Lady Esterton, talking in low voices in a comforting way. The Colonel, Vicar and Professor were standing in a huddle by the drawing-room door, the Vicar and Professor listening with absent-minded attention as the Colonel tried to make a plan of action.

The young housemaid and Anna, the middle aged, flouery armed cook, were standing in the doorway of the Pantry, looking on with avid interest. The kitchen door was slightly ajar and the red liquid and shards of glass glistened as the electric light fell through the open door. There was another open door at the end of the corridor that led to a dining room where a half cleared table could be seen.

Through all of this chaos wondered the unspeaking Roger with vacant eyes and blood-soaked hands. His footsteps echoed on the tiles of the hall and thudded up the blue carpet on the stairs.  They were silent as he went along the plush corridor and stopped outside a closed door which he reached out to, as if to open before turning away and coming back the way he came. He walked around the dining room table and ran a hand along the bookcase. He stopped every so often and listened to an unheard sound before continuing in his pacing. Each of his movements were followed by the scared, worried eyes of his wife as she sat, not hearing the comforting words of the two women beside her. 

Miss Winshaw was walking two paces behind him trying to think of something to say or do to snap him back to reality. Her green, fluffy slippers were incredibly out of place in this dramatic scene. Her hair was almost completely undone now and hung in grey waves around her shoulders. She felt helpless to protect this man she'd known since his boyhood.

She wasn't sure if she should be scared of him. Wasn't sure if she could believe he was a killer. A killer of who? For what reason? A killer of who? A killer of who?

This question went round and round her head as she walked round and round the house after the man she still thought of as dear little Roger who once twisted his wrist after falling out of the pear tree he’d been climbing with Alfie and cried and cried until she's giving him a mug of chamomile tea and promised he could stay the night and read stories around the fire. Surely he was not a killer. A killer of who? 

But the evidence said otherwise. The image of him walking towards them, empty eyed, coated with blood, clutching a knife. She shivered. Dear little Roger couldn't be a killer. Could he? A killer of who?

There were eight guests at the start of the evening and 8 guests now so who was dead? She hasn't dared to ask. She would find out soon enough when the officer arrived. 

It was then the door opened and Sergeant Crossley stepped into the nightmarish scene. He stood for a moment in the doorway, wondering if he should come in. He wiped his muddy boots on the mat, shook out his coat and hat and hung them neatly on the stand. He then straightened his jacket and cleared his throat. Everyone froze and ten pairs of worried, curious eyes turned to look at him. 

"Right, " his voice was crisp and to-the-point, with a slight trace of a Geordie accent, "What can I do for you people?" 
There was an awkward cough as everyone shuffled nervously. Then, to everyone's great surprise, Lord Esterton spoke. 

"It was me. I... I killed him. Oh God. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." His voice was shaky and emotional. His breathing ripped through him like the shaky notes of a violin vibrato. With this proclamation, he dropped to his knees and began to sob uncontrollably. Noone moved. They all just dithered in a shocked silence, trying to process this confirmation of what they had feared.