On Track for Murder Page 23

  Darkness fell quickly in that southern coastal town. The blunt-edged moon hung low in the sky, creating long shadows across the street beneath Abigail’s balcony. No longer could she discern the water in the bay. A black void stretched into the distance like a starless pool of melted night sky. The salty smell, drifting on the breeze, provided the only evidence that an ocean existed somewhere out there in the night.

  Out there in the night. Abigail’s thoughts turned to Ridley. The brave pursuit of their prime witness now rested on his shoulders. They must have reached the river by now. Winding their way up the inland watercourse would be difficult in the darkness, but the darkness was needed to provide them with cover. Catching Larkin off guard was their best hope of success. Abigail hoped that Larkin would not put up excessive resistance. She hoped, beyond anything else, that Frances would come to her senses and assist in freeing Bertie.

  Abigail stared out into the blackness, hoping to spot the dim lights of the returning steam boat. The total darkness played tricks with her mind. All manner of imaginings loomed out of the void: creatures, monsters and bottomless openings to the underworld. To court such fantasies must surely lead to insanity. She directed her attention back to the room behind her. The darkness within provided little relief. Abigail considered lighting the oil lamp on the side table but paused. Increasing the light in the room would affect her ability to see out to the bay and to observe the return of her hero. She left the room darkened.

  The street below provided some small relief to the darkness. Pools of orange light spilled out from the windows of the inn. Occasional moving shadows proved people were going about their business on the ground floor. Moonlight had begun to gently silver treetops in the surrounding countryside. In Sterling Terrace, though, it was yet to rise above the line of buildings on the hill behind the inn.

  A breeze ruffled the edges of the open curtains. Abigail shivered. The light wind was cold but Abigail sensed it more as a portent of evil. Is my imagination running wild, or could it actually be some sort of omen? She shook off the errant thoughts. There was no-one left in Albany to be a menace. Larkin was holding Frances captive up the river. Sleath was dead. Hurley and Burge were in prison.

  Abigail watched as a horse and cart crossed the railway track and slowly headed up the hill. Its dim oil lamp seemed to do little more than bend the shadows as it turned into Sterling Terrace. Approaching the inn, the horse shied at streams of light cast across the road. After pausing for a moment the driver clicked his tongue and they set off once more. Abigail gazed after it, dreaming of her and Ridley taking a carriage ride through the countryside on a warm Sunday afternoon.

  What was that? In the fading lamplight Abigail thought she saw something. A shadow duck into the bushes, away from the retreating cart. She must be seeing things, darkness playing more tricks. Seconds later the shadow reappeared. Dark, tall, human. It crept along the edge of the roadway moving quickly through small pools of light then hurrying back to the shadows.

  As the figure neared the inn it became clear it was a policeman. The silver badge on the front of his helmet clearly glinted in the orange lamplight. He looked furtively around and continued his attempts to remain in the shadows. Abigail wondered why this officer would be lurking so in the street at night. As he drew level with the edge of the balcony she was able to look directly down upon him. Abigail gasped. The insignia on the policeman’s upper arm. An insignia Abigail had not seen since Saturday. ‘Swan Constabulary’. It was Ridley Dunning.

  Abigail leaned over the balcony to call out but he had slipped into the inn and out of sight. What was he doing here in Albany? He should be riding the steam boat up the Kalgan River. Had he merely missed the boat in his effort to recover his uniform from the washer woman? If so, it had taken an awfully long time for him to return to the inn. That couldn’t be right.

  Abigail remained on the balcony, staring back into the darkened room. Ridley had to know she would be in her room, waiting. He would surely come and knock, explain his presence. Minutes dragged. Nothing. What is he doing? She took her attention back to the street below. All was quiet. There was no sign of her policeman anywhere.

  Just as Abigail had made her mind up to go in search, a loud creak in the corridor made her jump. Was this him? Was he finally coming to see her? The creaking footsteps halted before reaching her door. Ridley had paused outside Frances’ old room. Abigail’s breathing grew rapid but shallow. She strained to listen. Silence was broken solely by the hiss of the gas mantle in the corridor. She was captivated. A loud rattle made her start. The sound of the lock to Frances’ old room cut through the stillness. The door creaked open. What is going on?

  Muted clunking echoed through from the next room. Ridley appeared to be searching for something. Abigail moved to the balcony door, hoping that by leaning over the balustrade she may catch sight of him. This is ridiculous. She changed her mind. There must be a simple explanation. She would go immediately and find out what he was up to. If nothing else, he would certainly be grateful of some assistance.

  A door slam stopped her half way across the room. Ridley was back in the corridor and moving to her door. She listened intently. The creaking stopped. He was outside her room. The moving shadow visible under her door confirmed it. But there was no knock. Instead, the sound of a key rattling in the lock filled the room. What on earth?

  Abigail took a step back. Why would Ridley not just knock on her door? He knew she would be there. The backwards step became two. Abigail bumped into a small armchair and stopped. As the door creaked open a small amount of light leaked through the opening. The hallway lamp flickered as the breeze from the open balcony flowed into the corridor.

  The door swung wider. There he was. Standing boldly in the doorway, in full uniform. Abigail went to rush to him for an embrace but stopped dead. In his right hand, glinting in the dim light, he held a knife. Not a small knife, it hung to well below his knee. The shining steel blade flashed brightly as it was lifted to shoulder height. He took a step into the room.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The backlit figure moved a further step into the room. He stopped, spun quickly and closed the door. The lock rattled as the key was turned. Abigail shuddered as she heard him remove the key and place in his coat pocket. The pair were now sealed in. The figure moved closer. With the chair behind her, Abigail found her escape options limited. She wasn’t even completely sure she understood what was going on.

  “What are you doing?” she called, attempting to edge towards the balcony doors. “Why aren’t you on the river boat?”

  The gap between them closed quickly. Still he said nothing.

  “Wait,” Abigail blurted. “Stop there or I will scream.”

  “I don’t think so.” The answer sounded odd. Husky and badly pitched.

  Abigail reached behind her to push the chair to one side. She stumbled and fell, landing seated on the narrow arm. “I will you know. I’ll scream if you don’t stop.” She couldn’t say what was wrong, but Ridley definitely wasn’t himself. “Please, Ridley. Don’t come any closer. Just talk to me.”

  “Excellent.” The voice was familiar, but was not Ridley’s. “Scream as much as you like. I informed the manager I was here to arrest you; that you may not come quietly. He said he would leave us alone.” The voice was false, deliberately lowered to hide its true identity.

  “Who are you?” Abigail inwardly cursed the darkness. “What do you want?”

  “You, Abigail. I want you.”

  Abigail screwed her eyes to attempt an identification. To no avail. This voice was so familiar but she couldn’t place it. “Who are you?”

  “Just imagine I am Constable Dunning.”

  The reply sent shivers down Abigail’s spine. “But you are not Constable Dunning. He wouldn’t behave in such a way.”

  “That is as maybe.” The intruder took another step closer. “But the police will assume I am Constable Dunning. When I am finished.”

  “Finished what
?” Abigail had managed to wrap her hand around a cushion on the armchair. She grabbed it and leapt to her feet. Swinging wildly she aimed the cushion into the darkness towards the intruder. It struck a full blow on the side of the face, knocking the helmet to the ground. As it clattered off the foot of the bedstead, Abigail heard the intruder’s true voice.

  “You little minx,” the intruder muttered, pulling away. The huskiness had gone, the pitch risen. A clear northern English accent gave the intruder’s identity away instantly.

  “Frances?” Abigail called out. “Frances. What are you doing here? Why are you dressed in Ridley’s uniform?”

  “Oh, Ridley now, is it?” Frances ignored Abigail’s questions. “Become quite the pair, have we?”

  “That is none of your business,” Abigail replied. “What are you doing here?”

  “Haven’t you guessed by now?”

  “No, I have not guessed.”

  “Well, that isn’t my problem,” Frances sneered.

  “So, why are you wearing Ridley’s, uniform?” Abigail asked. “You cannot get away with this, whatever ‘this’ is.”

  “Oh, but I can … and I will.” Frances replaced the helmet and moved closer. Her hair had unwound itself and hung down around her shoulders, shattering any illusion of her being a real policeman.

  It still didn’t make sense. “What do you want?” Abigail was insistent.

  “If it weren’t for you we wouldn’t be in this predicament … Abigail.” Frances moved to the open balcony doors. “You arrived too early. Now you’ve poked your nose into my business I have to do something about it.”

  “What business? What are you doing?”

  “Sit,” Frances barked. “If you must ask so many questions I will tell you. You are going to die … simple. And your dear Constable Dunning is to be found guilty of your murder.”

  “How? Why? What do you mean? Ridley wouldn’t murder me.”

  “Wouldn’t he? I’m afraid I’ve planted evidence to the contrary. Your detective inspector back in the Swan River Colony now believes Constable Dunning was my lover. He will be assessing evidence placing Dunning at your father’s murder scene as we speak.”

  “You cannot do that. They will not believe it.”

  “Oh, but they will. When they find the Marriage Declaration, registered by Constable Dunning concerning his intentions towards me, it will all become clear.”

  “But … there never was any such document.”

  “There is now. It seems that your constable schemed to run away with me after killing Albert. We were to escape with the fortune and live happily ever after. But then you got in the way. So Dunning had to remove you. Hence we find ourselves here. At least your stupid brother will get off the charges. Be grateful for that at least.”

  “But Ridley is with the police. They will know he didn’t do it.”

  “Unfortunately, my dear, he is not with the police. He received a message asking him to go alone to a spot on the western coast, about two hours’ walk away. He was told not to postpone the raid up river but to excuse himself and come alone.”

  “He wouldn’t fall for such an obvious trap.”

  “Oh, but he did. And I had already picked up his uniform. When you are found they will search his room and find his blood stained clothes along with the murder weapon. They will find me tied up in my old room, an innocent victim of a corrupt policeman.”

  “But you will be found complicit in Father’s murder. It won’t work.”

  “Don’t you worry yourself about all that. I have witnesses who will place me in Beverley when Albert was killed. And they will testify that I knew nothing of the marriage declaration, that I thought Dunning was just coming to live with me.”

  “You are an evil woman,” Abigail said, sliding up out of the chair and backing away towards the dresser.

  Frances’ eyes bulged and her huge teeth grew within her snarl. “How dare you call me evil. It is you who is evil. It is you who have denounced the faith and set off in pursuit of the devil and his minions.”

  “What …?” Abigail backed into the dresser. Cornered, she now had nowhere to go.

  Frances moved forward, the blade flashing in the moonlight.

  Abigail pressed harder against the dresser. “What do you mean, ‘I have turned to the devil’? You are the crazy one. You are the one intent on killing people. That isn’t exactly a christian act, now, is it?”

  Frances held the blade up at head height, turning it in her vision. “The new colonies are rife with Godlessness.”

  Abigail squinted into the darkness, attempting to ascertain Frances’ movements. It was too dark. “I suppose you believe your actions are just?”

  “Oh, they are. Someone has to take a stand.”

  “But why this? Why Father? And why frame Ridley for his murder?” Abigail still didn’t understand.

  “Your Father asked you here. He requested you come into our home. Now, my bible tells me not to accept the ungodly across my threshold.”

  “So … this is all about me?”

  “You are the one who seeks to overturn the natural ways, the ways God instituted.” Frances waved the blade at Abigail.

  “All I believe is that there is more for us to understand. Life has so much more to offer than we have even acknowledged.”

  “There you go again,” Frances’ sneer grew more intense. “Carrying on about furthering understanding. All you need to understand, young lady, is in the bible. You wouldn’t accept that, so you must not be allowed to spread your heresy any further.”

  “Where do you get this nonsense from?”

  “It is not nonsense. It is pure sense. The group I belong to are gathering disciples to face the wrath that is flooding the world—”

  “Is this that crazy travelling preacher you talked about when we arrived?”

  “Jacobson is not crazy. He is the only man who hears the true will of God.”

  “I can’t believe you think it’s God’s will to do this to people.”

  Frances kicked a small occasional table out the way and took a step closer. “Enough. You will stop talking now and accept your fate.”

  “I will not.” Abigail reached out, grabbing a scent bottle from the dresser and swinging it wildly at Frances. The crystal glass clinked loudly as it struck the blade. “Get away from me.”

  Frances stepped back, gathering herself in the darkness. A glint of moonlight off the newly cleaned buttons became a beacon and Abigail flung the bottle directly at it. Scuffling noises cut through the night air. The scent bottle was returned with a vengeance, hitting Abigail squarely on the shoulder.

  A foot knocking against the upturned table revealed that Frances was closing in. Abigail kicked madly at the dresser, searching for an escape. “You won’t get away with this,” she yelled, attempting to rise to her full height.

  Frances stopped. In the darkness Abigail saw the blade glint before being slammed into the back of the chair. Abigail fumbled once again around the dresser. The top was empty. She jumped as a second swipe of the blade drove into the chair.

  Abigail’s hand ran along the front of the dresser. The knobs on the drawers felt solid. She paused with her hand over a small side drawer. “Look, Frances,” she said. “This is silly. We are grown women. Can we not sort this out like mature adults? Let us stop this nonsense and come to some accord.”

  “I’m afraid it is too late for that.” Frances’ voice held a tone of determination that Abigail hadn’t detected before. “God is on my side. He will undo your scheming and make everything right.” She advanced.

  Sensing the stalling tactic was expiring, Abigail seized her opportunity. She pulled with all her might on the drawer. It came away easily. More heavy that Abigail had guessed, it took renewed effort to raise the drawer and swing it backwards. At that very moment one of the silver epaulets glinted, betraying Frances’ location. Abigail swung with every ounce of energy she possessed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  A c
ry of pain revealed that Abigail had succeeded. The wooden weapon had found its target. Still holding the drawer tightly, Abigail swung back for a second attack. Her strike found its mark. The drawer clattered into Frances’ knife hand. The resultant scream revealed that Abigail had managed some damage. It was the sight of the knife twisting through the air that really gave Abigail hope. As it clattered to the ground on the open balcony, the blade glistened in the moonlight. Distracted, Abigail didn’t hear the shuffle as Frances gathered herself. Without a sound she flung herself headlong into Abigail. The shock caught Abigail by surprise and the two women fell to the floor, arms swinging wildly.

  Scratching and kicking they rolled across the floor. Abigail racked her mind attempting to mentally locate the objects in her room. Any weapon retrieved would provide the user with the upper hand. The discarded cushion hit her in the side of the head. I can handle that. Of greater concern was the location of the discarded drawer. Abigail shook her head. Recovering from the soft cushion attack, she heard Frances leap to her feet and strike out to the balcony and the location of the knife.

  A police uniform was of much greater advantage than full skirts. Abigail struggled to regain her footing. Her heart sank when she observed the knife glinting in the moonlight, once more in Frances’ possession. Abigail started for the door but tripped over the discarded drawer. She reached down, pulling it to her side. By now Frances was negotiating the small upturned table and began bearing down on Abigail with renewed vigour. Abigail swung again, this time the drawer proved too heavy and it swung low. A cry went up and Frances doubled over. Abigail had managed to strike her knee with the last swing. The blade flashed around wildly as Frances clutched the damaged limb with her free hand. She began to bellow at Abigail.

  In the darkness Abigail found the onslaught almost too hard to endure. She felt she could easily give up and allow her life to end here and now. But something kept her going, something gave her the strength to continue … despite the noisy confusion. Amidst the commotion of name calling, and the clattering of knife against upturned table, a different sound cut through. What is that? Abigail recognised it but in the heat of the moment couldn’t describe its origin. A sort of banging … and calling out. Then it hit her, someone was banging on the door. Maybe the innkeeper was worried for his room in this supposed arrest? Maybe a neighbour wished to complain about the noise?