“The magistrate’s men carted the body away, but there’s still a lotof blood,” the colonel announced with an air of importance.
“But who is it? Who has died?” someone asked.
Don’t tell them!Bridget pleaded with the colonel inside her head.Please, not like this.
The colonel stopped and turned to face the crowd with a somber expression on his face. “They say it’s that young poet everyone is so fond of—what’s his name—Otis George.”
“George Otis!” the beautiful Lady Matheson shrieked. “That can’t be. No, I don’t believe it.” She clutched her chest and almost sank to the ground before grasping onto Miss Jennings and righting herself. Rather than assisting the woman, the reserved Miss Jennings flinched as though she’d been struck.
Jane gasped, and Bridget felt her throat constrict. Jane had been as fond of George as she’d been. “No!” she said. “It can’t be true.”
“Well, I’ll be…” Mr. Harley said.
“Oh, dear.” Bridget clasped her hands together. “This is going to cause a lot of distress. I’d best go and talk to them.”
Just then, Bridget’s aunt exited the villa and strode toward her with forceful, giant steps. “Good gracious, Bridget. They say someone has died!” she said when she reached her niece. “Tell me it’s not true. There cannot be another murder at Villa De Lacey. I won’t stand for it.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Aunt. There has been a murder, and a brutal one at that.” Bridget glanced worriedly at the guests who were approaching the daffodils where George’s blood still stained the yellow petals.
“Oh, my! This cannot be happening again.”
Bridget’s heart hammered as she watched Colonel Kendall use his walking stick to point at the location of the murder. She saw Lady Matheson put a hand over her mouth as if to conceal a scream. And Miss Jennings swayed on her feet as if she might swoon. The only person who looked unperturbed was Mr. Angert. He was an artistfrom Germany who’d come to paint the sublime beauty of the lakes. He studied the scene before him intently, as though committing it to canvas in his mind.
Where is Nate?Bridget glanced anxiously at the villa, partly annoyed and partly bewildered. How could he let the colonel run loose and behave as though he were a ringmaster in a circus? It wasn’t like him at all to lose control of a situation. Something must have distracted him. But what could be more important than containing the colonel?
“You should go find Mr. Squires,” Aunt Marianne said as if reading Bridget’s thoughts. “He needs to rein this in before it gets out of hand.”
Before?Bridget glanced again at the villa.It’s far too late for that.For a moment, she was torn between finding Nate and rushing to Braithwaite. Then she made her decision. Nate must have had a good reason for letting the colonel out of his sight, just as she had a good reason for leaving the guests now.
“You’ll need to go and find him,” Bridget said to her aunt. “I must make haste.”
“Make haste?” Aunt Marianne said. “What for? You can’t leave now. I forbid it.”
“I’m sorry, Aunt,” Bridget said, “but I must leave things in your capable hands.” Then she turned and hurried toward the servants’ entrance at the back of the villa. She needed to get to Braithwaite before Rupert sent a mob to the butcher’s farm, and if Nate knew where she was headed, he’d try to stop her from going. She entered the servants’ quarters and dashed into the kitchen where the scullery maid was hard at work scrubbing dishes, and Cook was sitting down with a cup of tea. The stout woman stood immediately when she saw Bridget.
“There you are, Miss Bridget.”
“Were you waiting for me?” Bridget asked.
Cook furrowed her brow. “James says there’s been another murder. He says the victim is the poet, George Otis, and that his body lies in the daffodils. But Mr. Squires forbade us servants from going upstairs. So, you must tell me—is it true? Is the poet dead?”
“Mr. Squires?” Bridget said. “You saw him?” Bijou struggled to free himself from her arms. The kitchen floor was his favorite place to hunt for scraps and crumbs. Bridget suspected that most of them were left on purpose by Cook and the staff.
“Aye, he came down here in a hurry, gave us our warnings, and then left. It seemed as if he were in a great rush.”
Bridget bit her lip. Could Nate have had the same idea as she? Had he cantered off to help Mr. Groby?
“Well, miss?” Cook urged.
“I’m afraid it’s true.” Bridget put the squirming Bijou on the floor. He immediately ran to Cook’s side and looked pleadingly up at her. “George Otis has been murdered.”
“Good grief, miss! Another murder!”
Bijou barked, clearly frustrated by the lack of attention he was receiving from Cook. She looked down at him. “What you be wanting?” she said. “Looking for scraps, are you?”
Bijou wagged his tail and barked again.
“None of that barking or you’ll get nowt!” Cook waggled her finger at him, and Bijou barked again. She put her hands on her hips and said, “I’ll get you some scraps after your mistress tells me about this murder.”
