At ten-thirty, with a thick quilt of clouds smothering the moon's light into a hazy glow over the city, Godson Arora and I were speeding down the highway that ran just behind the north side of Arundel Hall. In ten swift minutes, we pulled up by the gate that Mr. Hightower had once used on his last, fateful hunting trip.
Godson stopped the car, the glowing ember of his cigarette briefly lighting up his face as he looked my way.
"I’ll ditch the car and join you," he offered, his voice low.
“No, you’re not,” I shot back, firm as iron. “I’m going in alone, Godson. You need to stay out of this. I might need you as a witness later on.”
“What if you run into trouble?” His brow furrowed, a glimmer of concern flickering in his eyes.
“I'll make sure I don’t," I said, with more confidence than I felt. I opened the door and stepped out. "Just leave this to me. I can handle it.”
He studied my face, doubt written across his features, before sighing.
“Well, okay, if you say so. But are you really sure?”
“Yeah,” I nodded. “Don’t worry about me. I'll find my way back on my own steam. If I’m not back by dawn, go straight to Captain Donald. Just remember, you've got to keep yourself out of trouble. You know the setup now, and one of us has to be here to straighten out the kinks.”
Godson lifted his shoulders in a resigned shrug.
“You’re the boss,” he muttered, shifting gears. “If you don’t want me, then I’ll scram. So long—and good luck.”
I watched the car fade into the distance, its red taillights swallowed by the night. Taking a deep breath, I climbed the gate and made my way up the winding path, the gentle slope carrying me towards the woods where Mr. Graves had met his violent fate.
At the top of the small rise in the middle of the clearing, I paused. It was here, some fourteen months ago, that Mr. Graves had ridden up to survey his grand estate. And it was here that the killer had been waiting, shotgun in hand. Seconds later, Mr. Graves was dead on the ground, and his horse was trotting back home, raising the alarm. From where I stood, I could see the thin, glowing ribbon of the highway below and the distant headlights of cars making their way toward Alexandra. Everything was eerily silent up on the hill, an atmosphere so ghostly that it made the hairs on my arms prickle.
I set off downhill, staying on the narrow path that wound through the trees. The moon, veiled behind layers of gauzy clouds, gave just enough light for me to make my way. After what felt like forever, I caught sight of the lights of Arundel Hall—the Graves' sprawling residence—nestled in the hollow below. The moonlight revealed a vast expanse of immaculately cut lawns and tightly packed flower beds that circled the grand mansion.
As I walked, I couldn't help but wonder if Mrs. Graves was at home, and if she was, what she might be doing at this very moment. Had her good-for-nothing friend Saul Bolton already gotten to her? Had he warned her that Miss Ashley had started talking? These questions raced through my mind as I slowed my pace, noticing the path began to blur into a clearing up ahead. I took cover behind a thick bush, pulling out the map Mr. Wright had given me. Shielding my flashlight, I checked my bearings.
I had to turn right at the end of the path, cross the clearing, skirt around the house, and then walk about a hundred yards until I reached the summer house. From there, the wild geese's enclave was just another fifty yards or so further beyond.
Sliding the map back into my hip pocket, I moved forward again, imagining Mr. Hightower taking these very steps on the night he was murdered. Sticking to the shadows, I crossed the clearing, keeping low and moving silently as I passed within forty yards of the dark, looming structure of the house. The windows glimmered with faint, slivered light. The massive shape of Arundel Hall seemed to pulse in the darkness, its presence heavy and menacing. I pressed on, slipping into another wooded area and pausing to check my bearings once more.
Somewhere to my right lay the summer house. The path led into a patch of woods, dark and silent as a graveyard. I moved forward slowly, but as I stumbled into a tree for the third time, I decided it was time to use my flashlight again.
Shielding the beam with my fingers, I forged ahead more confidently. Suddenly, a loud whirring sound broke the silence, making my heart leap into my throat. I looked up to see row after row of wild geese perched in the trees, their silhouettes barely visible. They sat shoulder to shoulder, dozens of beady little ruby eyes staring down at me. The sight of those birds, watching with such silent intensity, sent a chill down my spine. I quickened my pace, moving another twenty yards until I finally came to another clearing.
And there, smack dab in the center of the clearing, was the summer house.
It stood there, waiting, and tt was a verandah-wrapped cabin, its knotty pine walls rugged and worn. The dark windows stared back like vacant eyes, drinking in the moonlight.
I crossed the clearing, each step a whisper, and ascended the steps that led to the verandah. I reached for the door and gave it a firm push—it was locked, refusing to budge. A sigh escaped my lips. Windows it would be.
I slid around the back of the cabin, avoiding the creaky old planks. A quick look revealed two small windows and a larger casement. My eyes lingered on one of the smaller ones—unlatched. Perfect. I pulled out my pocket knife, wedging it in until I managed to lever the window half open. Pausing, I listened, ears straining for the slightest sound.
The night air was rich with eerie music—trees swaying under the gentle wind, branches groaning under the weight of sleepy birds, wings fluttering in startled bursts, a climbing vine tapping insistently against the cabin wall. It was a symphony that could easily drown out the approach of a guard creeping closer. I shivered but didn’t let the fear take root. No turning back now.
I pushed up the window and, with one deep breath, swung my leg over, dropping into the darkness. My foot hit a thick carpet, muffling the landing. Flashlamp in hand, I shielded the beam, surveying my surroundings.
The room was spacious, dotted with lounging chairs and well-worn settees. Heavy drapes loomed at the windows. I tested them—perfect for blocking out light. I yanked them across and flipped on the lights.
Dust lay like a shroud over everything. The place hadn’t been touched in months, maybe longer. Cobwebs drooped lazily from the ceiling. My eyes swept over the bar tucked in the corner—bottles gleamed under the dim lights. A glass with a faded smear of lipstick stood abandoned beside a bottle of Whiskey. A bowl of salted almonds, coated in a film of dust, lingered untouched.
It felt like this little getaway spot had been shut tight in a hurry, forgotten ever since.
The Persian rug sprawled across the floor caught my eye. Could it be beneath here? My heart pounded at the thought. I pushed a settee to the side and rolled back the edge of the rug. Knotty pine floorboards stared up, their creamy hue unmarred. Nothing. But there was still more to search.
Moving quickly, I shoved furniture around, rolling the rug further back, my eyes scanning every inch of the planks. My breath hitched in my throat when I finally found it. In the far right-hand corner of the room, a dark stain the color of aged mahogany tainted the pale wood—roughly a foot square. I knelt down, shining my flashlamp over it.
No question about it—an old bloodstain. Someone had laid here, bleeding, the life ebbing from their body. And I knew whose it was—Reuben Hightower.
With trembling fingers, I pulled out my pocket screwdriver. I inspected the screws holding down the planks. Some of them looked newer, brighter, less rusted than the rest. I worked quickly, removing the newer screws. They came out almost too easily. Once done, I slipped the point of my screwdriver between the planks, levered one up, and hesitated. My heart thudded wildly, my mouth suddenly dry.
I angled the flashlamp down, and as the beam pierced the darkness, I froze. A grinning skull stared back at me, empty sockets gazing into my soul. The bones, picked clean by rats, lay among the shadows. The dusty remnants of a leather windcheater peeked out, unmistakable even in its decay. Reuben Hightower.
The
breath I’d been holding whooshed out. I’d found him!
END
OF EPISODE 41
P.S.
Stay tuned for Episode 42, which will be published here next Sunday.
No comments:
Post a Comment