NOTHING HAD GONE as planned that morning.
Andrews had instructed cook that he would be taking up her ladyship’s breakfast tray just as soon as the painting had been dispatched. Cook had developed a migraine, so her number two, not a reliable girl, had been put in charge of her ladyship’s breakfast. The security van turned up forty minutes late, with a cheeky young driver who refused to leave until he’d been given coffee and biscuits. Cook would never have stood for such nonsense, but her number two caved in. Half an hour later, Andrews found them sitting at the kitchen table, chatting.
Andrews was only relieved that her ladyship hadn’t stirred before the driver finally departed. He checked the tray, refolded the napkin, and left the kitchen to take breakfast up to his mistress.
Andrews held the tray on the palm of one hand and knocked quietly on the bedroom door before opening it with the other. When he saw her ladyship lying on the floor in a pool of blood, he let out a gasp, dropped the tray, and rushed over to the body.
Although it was clear Lady Victoria had been dead for several hours, Andrews did not consider contacting the police until the next in line to the Wentworth estate had been informed of the tragedy. He quickly left the bedroom, locked the door, and ran downstairs for the first time in his life.
__________
Arabella Wentworth was serving someone when Andrews called.
She put the phone down and apologized to her customer, explaining that she had to leave immediately. She switched the OPEN sign to CLOSED and locked the door of her little antiques shop only moments after Andrews had uttered the word emergency, not an opinion she’d heard him express in the past forty-nine years.
Fifteen minutes later, Arabella brought her mini to a halt on the gravel outside Wentworth Hall. Andrews was standing on the top step, waiting for her.
“I’m so very sorry, m’lady,” was all he said before he led his new mistress into the house and up the wide marble staircase. When Andrews touched the bannister to steady himself, Arabella knew her sister was dead.
Arabella had often wondered how she would react in a crisis. She was relieved to find that although she was violently sick when she first saw her sister’s body, she didn’t faint. However, it was a close thing. After a second glance, she grabbed the bedpost to help steady herself before turning away.
Blood had spurted everywhere, congealing on the carpet, the walls, the writing desk, and even the ceiling. With a Herculean effort, Arabella let go of the bedpost and staggered toward the phone on the bedside table. She collapsed onto the bed, picked up the receiver, and dialed 999. When the phone was answered with the words, “Emergency, which service?” she replied, “Police.”
Arabella replaced the receiver. She was determined to reach the bedroom door without looking back at her sister’s body. She failed. Only a glance, and this time her eyes settled on the letter addressed “My dearest Arabella.” She grabbed the unfinished missive, unwilling to share her sister’s last thoughts with the local constabulary. Arabella stuffed the epistle into her pocket and walked unsteadily out of the room.