Harkworth Hall by L.S. Johnson

Author:L.S. Johnson [Johnson, L.S.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub, mobi
Publisher: Traversing Z Press
Published: 2017-08-01T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter XII

Harkworth Hall

Though the main floor was as vacant as the kitchen, Harkworth Hall was decidedly occupied.

Room after room greeted me with the same vista: furniture swathed in canvas and windows shuttered and latched. Outside the kitchen, there were no more bloodstains, though the floors were marked with other debris: mud and leaves, but also gnawed bones, heels of bread, and empty wine bottles. Inside the main entrance doors, I saw several different sizes of footprints, which gave me pause. I had not anticipated so many. Was there a veritable gang to contend with? What, then, were the roles of Sir Edward and Miss Chase?

That she, too, might be complicit in Emily’s suffering—for some reason, the thought was more upsetting than Sir Edward’s criminality. Yet, something kept her by her employer’s side. I could not but assume that she was as much to be feared as he was.

I looked in cabinets and closets, I checked mantelpieces and every tray and dish I saw, but there were no keys to be had. In all likelihood, Sir Edward kept them in his rooms, or perhaps he never let go of them at all.

In the conservatory, I found the most blatant display of the men’s presence and learned what manner of companions Sir Edward fraternized with. The room I remembered as my favorite in the house, a light, airy space decorated by a feminine hand, peaceful and inviting. Now it was a ruin of its former self. The large windows were pocked with holes, through which the wind stirred the various items scattered about like the spoor of animals: a table hastily uncovered for a card game and splattered with wax, old papers and cheap tobacco pipes discarded on every surface, and everywhere the bottles, wine bottles and spirit bottles and ale-jugs, even the remains of a cask sitting in the corner and framed by crimson splashes. I did not dare to examine the corners of the room. The smells alone told me what baser functions had been performed there.

The room did yield one useful item, though: a stout poker, well-made and of an impressive weight. If they wanted another victim, I would make them work for their prize.

With the poker at the ready, I made my way to the main hall and the stairs leading to the upper story. As I ascended, I thought not of what lay ahead, but of poor Emily. What had she done to warrant such attentions? Surely it would have been no matter to let her believe the house as yet uninhabited, and make the long walk back home. Had she seen something, discovered something, that threatened Sir Edward’s designs? Why else would he risk harming her, with himself nearby and thus a suspect?

At the top of the stairs, I paused again, listening. Here, too, the rooms were deathly quiet. Was I alone, or were there villains behind every door? Were they stupefied by drink, or were they listening to me, as I was listening for them?

Behind the first door there were no villains, but, again, there was ample evidence of their numbers.

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