Murder At Rudhall Manor by Anya Wylde Page A

weeping
walls.
    With a last finger waggle towards the sparking flames, she
spun on her heels and headed towards the door. She stopped long enough to grab
her thin woollen coat and stepped into the white winter landscape.
    She breathed the crisp air scented with cow dung and horse
manure in pleasure.
    Dark, fluffy clouds rolled forth and efficiently covered the
sky. An icy wind fresh from the north followed and wriggled a naughty finger
down the back of her neck.
    She pulled the coat closer around her neck.
    The cold wind snickered and blew a powerful gust in her
direction making her lurch forward in alarm. It pushed her along until she had
no choice but to go where the wind blew.
    Spotting her favourite wooden bench a few feet away, she
hurried over to it and sat down.
    The wind changed direction and went to flirt with the
Blackwell milkmaids instead.
    Lucy wriggled about and got comfortable on the bench. She
adored this particular spot for two reasons. Firstly, it faced Peter's animal
house which was an old orangery made up of grey stones, wood and partly
coloured glass that twinkled enchantingly in the sunlight. And secondly, the
sun, when it shone, warmed up the bench making it mighty comfortable to sit on.
    She pulled out the folded piece of paper from her pocket and
resumed brooding over the list of names.
    Peter Sedley was second on her suspect list. He was the
eldest, the heir and the one who would have gained the most from Lord Sedley's
death.
    Somehow Lucy could not see the shy, gentle and funny
smelling Peter lifting a snickersnee and stabbing Lord Sedley in the chest.
    But human nature, she knew, was unpredictable and
changeable. One day one may adore the taste of lemons and the next day despise
the very sight of them. She doubted kittens grew to dislike the taste of milk
or dogs turned up their wet noses when presented with a juicy bone simply
because their taste buds had suddenly become refined.
    An image of a sparkling white poodle narrowing its eyes at a
plate of chicken in Robert Sauce flitted by in her mind’s eye.
    She frowned and forced her mind back on the matter at
hand—the murder.
    Who else could have done it?
    Elizabeth and Ian. They both needed the money. Ian to fuel
his gambling habit and Elizabeth for a season in London.
    She shook her head in annoyance. Even the servants were none
too fond of the master. Lord Sedley had been rude, often accosting the maids
and lashing out at the butler. And the valet was having an affair with Lady
Sedley. It could have been a crime of passion ….
    Everyone, it seemed, had a reason to kill the vulgar old
beast.
    Lucy sprang up with a hiss of frustration. Her head was
starting to pound.
    She couldn't do this alone.
    She needed help, at least in the beginning. She needed
someone who would tell her the basic facts of the murder without sneering or
growling at her.
    A flash of red and black caught her eye. Squinting, she
recognized the figure—Lord Adair.
    This was her chance to ask him some questions. If he truly
intended to find out the truth, then he wouldn't hesitate in guiding her in the
right direction.
    She steeled her fluttering stomach and before she could lose
her nerve made her way towards him.

Chapter 13
    She stood a few feet away from him watching his back.
    And, oh, what a back it was.
    A giant golden dragon was woven into the black fabric of his
robe. The shimmering fire emanating from the dragon's mouth seemed to caress
his broad shoulders.
    An icy gust of wind sent the velvet cloth rippling like a
dark, disturbed pond. The robe, she noted, was too long for him. It pooled at
his feet, stark against the snow covered ground.
    She wondered at her own courage. She was still amazed at the
bold manner in which she had addressed him that day in the morning room. She
felt a bit like a hero in a fairy tale who plunged into danger in spite of
trembling like a leaf inside.
    And here she was once again skirting the edges of danger;
daring to speak to Lord