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NOW, ALL I HAD TO DO was devise some sort of scheme that would benefit the clergyman without getting myself, or Tilda, killed in the process. Not an easy task, but at this juncture, what choice did I have? It never occurred to me to leave Tilda here and simply save myself. To rescue her from the madman was my sole reason for being here, therefore I would watch and wait for the opportunity to make my move.
Evidently, I was equally as exhausted as Tilda and the clergyman, for sleep soon overtook me as I sat huddled within the wardrobe, my knees drawn up, my head resting upon them. I have no idea how long I slept, but at length I was jerked to awareness by the sound of the man’s voice speaking roughly to Tilda. Again, I sat up and attempted to peek out.
“When I return from the stable, you and I will make a sojourn to the cook’s pantry in search of candles. I’ll not take the last one with me now for we shall need it later to light our way belowstairs.” He said no more. I next heard the chamber door open and close and the echo of the man’s footfalls moving on down the corridor.
At once, I sprang from my hiding place and rushed to remove the gag from Tilda’s mouth and to untie her. Saying nothing, she hurried past me to the screen at the rear of the room, then a few moments later, more calmly returned to where I stood awaiting her before the fire.
“Put this on.” I handed her the coat I’d brought along for her. She did so, then we both stood side-by-side before the low burning fire, our hands outstretched as we attempted to thaw out our freezing fingers.
“Why can we not leave now, miss?” Tilda asked anxiously.
I turned to her. “First, assure me that you are unhurt. The man did not harm you in any way, did he?”
Her head shook. “I be fine, miss; just stiff from sittin’ so long, and awful hungry. Can we go now?”
“Not yet. I have been trying to figure a way to overcome him.”
“Why can’t we just leave now?” she again asked, fear coloring her tone. “If we wait for him to return, he’ll kill us, sure.”
“I cannot think that the wisest course, Tilda.” My thoughts were distracted as I mulled over how we might best accomplish our, or my, goal.
“Pardon me for questionin’ ye’, miss, but, despite who that man’s pretendin’ to be, believe me, he ain’t exactly the kindly or forgivin’ sort.”
My lips quirked. “I daresay you are right, Tilda. The trouble is, every last one of the houseguests, and perhaps also the Montfords, believe that either you, or I, took Mr. Torbitt’s life. If we simply appear in the drawing room as if nothing were amiss, and blithely declare that someone else, for instance, a mystery man dressed as a vicar, took the old man’s life, not a one of them will believe us. We will likely find ourselves closeted away from the others once more, both of us tied to chairs. Then, when the roads clear, the constable will be sent for and we shall both be brought up on charges with no way open to prove our innocence. To subdue the killer is the only way to clear our names and also remain free.”
“Oh-h.” Chewing on her lower lip, Tilda’s brow furrowed as she struggled to grasp what she did not quite understand. “But how are we gonna’ overcome ‘im, miss? Are we gonna’ tie him up, like he done me?”
“That is my hope.” I nodded. “Do you have any notion how long he will be away?” I turned around so the flames could warm my backside.
Tilda followed suit. “He goes to the stables to eat his supper with the field hands and the outworkers.” She paused. “Did you see him before he left just now? Under that black robe, he looks like any other fellow. Regular breeches and boots, even a ruffled shirt.”
My head jerked around. “A ruffled shirt?”
“I don’t think he’s no stable hand, miss, but he sure ain’t no man o’ the cloth neither.”
“I take it he has not yet revealed his true identity?”
“No.” She shook her head. “But he sure don’t like Lady Westcott none. He calls her the lying bitch.”
“Hmm. How long do you think he will be away?”
“Cain’t say.” She shrugged. “Last night them fellas’ got to drinkin’ and when he come back here, he was so deep in his cups he could scarcely walk. The night before, he brung me back somethin’ to eat.” She looked down. “Bit o’ bread. It was kinda’ dirty, but I ate it anyways.”
I flinched. “I am so sorry, Tilda. You have been here two nights and as many days. You must be near starved by now.”
She shrugged. “To say truth, miss, my innards does feel near to starvin’. But I ain’t dead yet, so that’s somethin’ to be thankful for.”
My heart went out to her as I leaned to drape an arm about her shoulders. “Trust me, Tilda, I will not let him kill you. Or, me.”
“Sure hope you’s right, miss.”
We both fell silent a spell, then Tilda said, “Tell me again why we can’t leave now.”
Instead of answering her question, I asked, “Are you aware of any weapons the man has secreted away? I recall a footman saying a pistol had gone missing from Lord Montford’s study.”
Tilda nodded. “I seen a pistol, and a knife, probably the one he used on Lady Westcott’s maid. Which is another reason why I ain’t keen on angerin’ the man.” She moved toward the cot. “I seen him polishin’ the pistol. Says he got it ‘specially for the lying bitch. I wasn’t certain what he meant, lessen he means to use it to shoot Lady Westcott.”
I followed Tilda to the cot where the killer slept. “Did he take the pistol with him to the stables tonight?”
“No, miss. It and the knife is stashed right here under the tick.” Reaching to lift up the lower half of the lightweight mattress on the bed, she added, “His coat don’t have pockets, and his boots is too tight to tuck the pistol into. He tried, but it was too bulky, so he slid it back under here. Guess he didn’t fear I’d pinch it.”
I drew out the heavy gun. It was quite large, and I assumed also loaded and therefore, lethal. I carefully laid the weapon with the polished wooden handle down upon the bed.
“Where did he leave the one remaining candle?”
“Candle’s here, too. But it’s just laying on the floor under the bed.” She bent from the waist. “Shall I get it?”
“Not yet. First, we need to decide exactly what we intend to do once he returns.”
Her eyes a question, my trusting little maid turned to me. “What do ye’ wont me to do, miss?”
“First off, we must both remain alert for the sound of him returning and the moment we hear him, we must spring into action and work in perfect concert to implement our carefully orchestrated plan.”
“’Cuse me, miss, but I don’t rightly know how to . . . ‘con-cert’.”
I smiled. I should have known better than to employ such an odd phrase when speaking with Tilda. “In concert means we work together. We must work as one, in order to ensure our plan will not fail.”
“Oh. We done a good many things in con-cert, aint’ we, miss? Like goin’ down in that tunnel under the house in Middlewych, and watchin’ out for that Chinese butler who wanted to . . .”
“Indeed, Tilda,” I replied, “we have done a good many things together but this time, we must remain especially vigilant, alert,” I clarified. “One false step might mean we could both be killed.”
“I thought you said we ain’t gonna’ die, miss!”
“Please, Tilda, do listen carefully. Now then, here is my plan . . .”
* * *
ONCE I HAD EXPLAINED each and every detail of my scheme to my eager little maid, we both took up positions on either side of the closed door to wait, Tilda standing directly inside the doorway; me, a few steps from her on the opposite side where the heavy door would swing back when it was opened. We measured the width of the door so I knew exactly where to stand in order to be certain the door would not strike me when the killer entered the room. Then, we practiced our movements so as to be certain we knew exactly what to do the instant he returned.
“I don’t think he’ll be away too awfully long, miss. He wants us to nick the candles whilst dinner is being served and the servants is all busy,” Tilda told me. “Not certain he’ll be bringin’ back somethin’ for me to eat tonight, still, he’ll likely be carryin’ a plate or a pot with a bit of food for hisself to eat later. Last night, he brung somethin’ back but he didn’t share none of it with me.”
“I am so sorry, Tilda,” I murmured again. “I have eaten nothing today either. I am hoping Lady Montford will remedy that for both of us.”
“You and me both, miss.”
Tilda stood poised in position, holding the heavy chair leg we’d taken from the pile alongside the hearth in both hands as she waited. I positioned myself to the other side of the doorway, holding the clergyman’s long black robe in mine. I have no doubt that Tilda’s nerves were equally as on edge as mine as we breathlessly waited to implement our plan. Our wait was under a quarter hour although it seemed a good bit longer before we finally heard the sound of the killer’s footfalls.
“Remember to act quickly and hit him as hard as you can, Tilda,” I cautioned. “We have only the one opportunity to subdue the man.”
Her pale blue eyes wide, Tilda nodded tightly. “I’m a-pretendin’ to whack a pig when it comes runnin’ outta’ the gate. We’re a-havin’ pork for supper tonight, miss!”
Pushing down the nervous giggle that rose within me, I whispered, “Pork sounds delicious.”
We both listened, and as the footfalls drew nearer and nearer, Tilda’s eyes grew wider and wider. My brows knit together when I heard the man insert a key in the lock and the metallic click of the tumbler as he turned it. I blinked with alarm. I had not known we were locked in!
Then, as if the man were in no hurry whatever, the door slowly eased open. I watched as Tilda’s small body rocked back and forth in readiness to strike the instant the man stepped into the room. Opposite her, I lifted the ends of the dark cloth in preparation to fling it down over his head whilst keeping the counterfeit clergyman in my sights.
The murderer played right into our hands. Had he entered the room and turned to close the door, he would have come face-to-face with Tilda, a possibility I confess I had overlooked, instead, when he entered the dimly-lit chamber, he kicked back one leg to close the door, his gaze instead fastened upon the trencher of food he carried in both hands, which meant he did not see, or know, from whence the blow came.
Bending from the waist, Tilda swiftly swung the wooden bat that landed with a thud squarely across the unsuspecting man’s knees. I had recalled that being the very method Mr. Sheridan had once used to subdue a villain. At the time, I thought it was particularly brutal, although effective, and I am pleased to report, it worked equally as well here at Montford Hall!
When the killer let out a whelp of agony, the plate of food he carried clattered to the floor at the same instant I sprang from behind and brought the cleric’s robe down upon his head. Tilda surprised me (and him) by whacking him once more at the base of the skull. I confess this blow was unplanned, but it did provide the finishing touch to our carefully orchestrated scheme to disable the assassin.
In an instant, the young man lay sprawled before us upon the flagstone floor. Equally as stunned as he, although for different reasons, Tilda and I both stood staring down at him for a long moment afterward.
“Can we go now, miss?” Tilda asked eagerly.
“Not yet,” I replied, my breath coming in fits and starts as I continued to assess our handiwork. I was a trifle alarmed as to why the man had not yet made a move.
“Do ye’ suppose I kilt him?” Tilda reached to poke a toe at the man’s side.
When her touch resulted in a slight movement and a faint moan, I again sprang into action. Jerking the cord from my pocket, which the killer had used to wind about his middle when he wore the clerical robe, I stooped to wind it around and around his neck, the black garment covering his head and the entire upper portion of his body.
“Do you think he can breathe with that cloth over his head, miss?”
“Help me tie his wrists together with the ends of the rope.”
Tilda reached to snatch up one of the man’s wrists whilst I worked to extract his other arm free from beneath his body. Together, we hurriedly wrapped the ends of the cord I had wound about his neck down around his wrists. And knotted the ends together as tightly as I could.
“Now, then, help me drag him into the wardrobe.”
“Are you gonna’ lock him inside it?”
“Indeed, I am. I spotted a key lying on the floor whilst I sat there. I’m hoping it will fit the lock. Otherwise we’ll be obliged to find some other method of restraining him.”
“He looks good and restrained to me now, miss.”
“Not quite good enough,” I replied, making certain the ends of the cord binding his wrists were truly tied into a secure knot. Breathing hard from my exertion, I rose and flung a quick gaze about the room. “Rip the cord from the drapes, Tilda.” I pointed toward the window. “We shall use it to tie his ankles together.”
Her breath also coming in gasps, she ran to the window and soon returned carrying the length of golden cord that had been dangling from one of the dusty drapes.
“I hope it ain’t rotted,” she said, handing it to me.
“There’s also the rope he used to bind your wrists, but it might not be long enough.” Prior to turning back to my work, I impulsively said, “Before we tie his ankles together, let’s pull off his boots.”
“And throw ‘em in the fire?” Tilda asked.
“If you wish.” I giggled nervously.
Pausing, she gazed thoughtfully down at the man sprawled upon the floor. “I’d rather put ‘em on. My feet is about froze.”
We both knelt to each remove one of the man’s brown leather boots which Tilda promptly snaked her feet into.
“Are they not too large for you?” I asked.
“I got big feet, miss.” She held up one booted foot for me to see. “I used to wear m’ brother’s cast off boots. Boys’ brogues is far warmer than girls’ slippers.” She looked up with a grin. “Let’s yank off his trousers and toss them in the fire. Perhaps he’ll freeze off his . . . you know.”
I grinned. “I have never known you to be so heartless, Tilda.”
“You ain’t been stuck in this cold room with this wretch of a man for two days and nights, miss. I ain’t got a ounce of sympathy left for the likes o’ him. We can stuff him into the fire for all I care!”
“Well, I assure you, we are not going to do that. As soon as we get the good vicar locked inside the wardrobe, we need to retrieve the one remaining candle, light it, and set off for the drawing room.”
“I ‘spect we’ll have to tell ever’one what we done, right?”
I nodded. “But, perhaps they will be more apt to believe our story this time. Unless, of course . . . he is dead.”
Tilda shrugged. “Well, if’n he is, we done the deed in con-cert, didn’t we?”
“That we did,” I agreed.
“Can we leave now?”
“Just as soon as we lock the clergyman inside the wardrobe.”
I had no idea what our reception in the drawing room would be . . . but at least we were both alive to tell the tale.