CHAPTER 1: Death comes to Rhydsbury House

Wednesday July 3^rd 1991 7:15am

At quarter-past-seven on Wednesday morning, Rosie Blackthorne counted out thirty-five pence in coppers and fives onto the plastic tray unaware that at twelve minutes to one o’clock she would discover a dead body.

The bus driver sighed as she scowled. “It’s forty pence, dear.”

Confused, Rosie explained it was only thirty-five pence yesterday, but her protestations were quashed when she watched the bus driver blow out her cheeks and point a chubby finger at the hand-written sheet of paper gummed to the corner of the windscreen. From its rear, it took Rosie a moment to decipher the brief phrase, New Fares. With reluctance and with her head dipped, she counted out five pennies. “Sorry, I didn’t notice.”

The bus driver hissed through stained teeth and thumbed a button on the machine which emitted a thin, red and white striped ticket. Rosie ripped it away and tottered down the central aisle to a crash of coins as the driver palmed them into her money box. Not caring if the new passenger had managed to find a seat, the driver pulled away from the kerb causing Rosie to stumble until she grasped one of the vertical steel poles. Once she had regained her balance, and the driver was no longer shifting gears, she slid onto the nearest vacant seat that was neither threadbare, stained nor indented with the shape of a pair of buttocks.

It was her third trip on the bus at such an ungodly hour. On each occasion the driver had been the craggy, churlish-faced woman. Did she ever take a day off? Rosie speculated this notion as the juddering journey caused her to grip the back of the seat in front of her. She drew a deep breath through her nose and sighed. At least the air was cool in the first blushes of the day. According to the forecast, temperatures were going to breach thirty degrees by lunchtime.

The bus struggled its journey through the country roads, the driver grinding its gears as she navigated the single decked vehicle around every tight bend and down every narrow lane. With each corner, Rosie was thrown from side to side. She wondered if she would become accustomed to the constant tossing about, the other passengers appeared to be coping, why not her? Her skeleton tremored as the bus thundered over another cattle grid. Knowing it was the last one until her stop at Rhydsbury, she let her shoulders sink, slouched deeper into the seat and watched the countryside go by.

***

7:56am

Rosie stepped onto the pavement in the centre of Rhydsbury with her ‘thank you’ being ignored by the bus driver. She rubbed the back of her legs to loosen the muscles which had stiffened due to being held tense for the duration of the jarring journey. Glancing at her watch, she panicked and trotted to the far end of the village.

Five hundred yards beyond the last building; The seven-foot-high garden wall of Rhydsbury House imposed itself on the landscape. Brick with a tiled peak, the wall curtained the grounds from the lake situated behind the house. The heavy, black, wrought iron gates scraped open as Rosie used her shoulder to prise them apart. They shuddered and eventually clanged shut after she had squeezed through and leaned her back against them. She dared not leave them open, not after last time. The driveway to the old house was a mixture of loose gravel and uneven rocks, and Rosie, even though it dusted her shoes, found it easier to walk along the dried mud of the verges. It was either that or risk twisting an ankle.

Sensing she was late, Rosie jogged the final three hundred yards, arriving panting and sweating at the worker’s entrance at the rear of Rhydsbury House. Her heart sank when the towering and imposing figure of Charlotte Blair was waiting at the back door.

“Late again,” said Charlotte, exaggeratedly tapping her watch.

Shamed, Rosie muttered, “Sorry, Mrs Blair.”

“Third day on the run.” Charlotte’s eyes glared. “And you only started on Monday. Not a great start.”

“No, Mrs Blair. It’s just the bus arrives in Rhydsbury at five minutes to eight.”

Charlotte snorted, her six-foot frame looming over the young woman. “That’s hardly my problem.”

Surely, she was late by only a couple of minutes, speculated Rosie. However, with Charlotte’s bulging eyes and accusing stare, she did not want to risk debating the issue or demonstrate flippancy by checking her watch. “But it’s the only bus that stops in the village.” Rosie’s voice petered away.

Charlotte’s tone sharpened. “You’re paid to start work at eight o’clock not at five minutes past, not nine o’clock, not next week, not next year, but at eight o’clock. How you arrive here is none of my concern. Do you understand?”

Rosie’s reply was timid. “Yes, Mrs Blair.”

“Why on earth Mr Blair employed you knowing full well you lived in the back of beyond, God only knows.”

“Yes, Mrs Blair.”

“I’m assuming you’ve shut the gate this time, we don’t want another escaped deer.”

“Yes, Mrs Blair.”

“Well then?” Charlotte gestured a hand towards the inside of the house. “I suggest you hurry. Mrs White needs help with breakfast.”

Rosie’s reply was doleful. “Of course.” She rushed into the house, squeezing past Charlotte who refused to move from the doorway.

Sprinting along the corridors, Rosie gathered her hair into a ponytail and slipped off her cardigan as soon as she entered the kitchen. Snatching an apron from the hooks behind the door, she replaced it with her cardigan all to the accompaniment of Mrs White’s furtive glances and throaty Scottish drawl.

“I bet ole per-snickerty knickers was waiting for you again,” said Mrs White, standing at the kitchen work surface and cracking five eggs into a bowl with a well-practiced one-handed twist technique.

 Rosie threw on the apron and tied it round the back of her waist. “She was.”

With her stubby, pale digits, Mrs White opened another box of eggs and broke all six into the bowl using the same proficient manoeuvre. “Was she tapping her watch?”

“She was,” said Rosie, smoothing her apron.

Removing a whisk from the hook on the wall, Mrs White said, “Were her eyeballs protruding and her moustache quivering?”

Rosie smirked but did not answer. It was only her third day; it did not seem right to join in with ribbing the mistress of the house even if it was behind her back.

“Don’t worry about it love,” said Mrs White, placing the whisk and bowl on the kitchen island. “For some reason it was Mr Blair who gave you the job and there’s nothing she can do about it. Now, be a love and whisk that lot.”

Rosie’s mouth formed into a thankful smile. She held the rim of the bowl and swirled the eggs with vigour until a splash of the sticky liquid spilled onto the table.

“Careful, dear,” said Mrs White. She mimed stirring a bowl against her waist. “Like I showed you yesterday, hold the bowl between your elbow and midriff.”

Rosie apologised and flushed with embarrassment for forgetting such a simple instruction. Copying Mrs White’s technique, she whisked the eggs for half a minute before wiping her brow with the back of her hand, cursing to herself when the whisk she was holding dripped golden liquid across her apron. “I can’t believe how warm it is.”

Mrs White stepped over to the five-foot tall fridge and piled her left arm with bacon, mushrooms, butter and black pudding. “And Mr Blair’s radiator is on the blink again. Fourth time in a month.”

Rosie placed the bowl on the table. “Wasn’t Miss Stanslow getting someone in to fix it?”

Mrs White tipped the contents of her arm onto the hob. “As the manager of the house, that Stanslow woman is useless, it’s like speaking to a gerbil. Besides, Mr Blair refuses to dip into his pocket to have it mended. I’m not sure why, it’s not as if he’s short of a few quid. All he’s got to do is sell one of his paintings. Mind you, why anyone would pay over a tenner for one of his scrawls beggars belief. He had them all on display in an exhibition at one time. Lord knows what happened to them, they didn’t come back here. Someone with terrible taste in art probably has them. The world’s full of gullible idiots.”

“I won’t be able to cope cleaning the rooms again in this heat. I hear it’s going to be hotter than yesterday, thirty-two degrees.” Rosie puffed out her cheeks and placed her hands on her hips. “Do you know how hot it gets in The Stables?”

“I’ve never been in them myself, but Winnie used to moan about them all the time.”

“Winnie?” asked Rosie, leaving the name hanging in the air.

“Winnie Pierce, the woman who did your job before recently retiring.”

“Oh, yes,” nodded Rosie, “I recall you mentioning her on Monday.”

“Christ, it’s only Wednesday, love. Is your memory really that bad?”

Rosie’s reply was weak and self-conscious. “Sometimes.”

Approaching the Aga, Mrs White nodded to the opposite side of the island. “I’ve readied Mr Blair’s tray, he wanted cereal and toast, but I know what he wants better than he does. Because it’s so warm, there’s also a carafe of water. He’s in one of his offices.”

“Which one?”

Mrs White glanced to the heavens. “I don’t know, knock on the white room, and if he doesn’t answer, knock on the black room.”

With a hint of bashfulness because she knew ‘which one’ was a silly question to ask, Rosie murmured, “Oh yes, stupid, sorry.”

From the pocket of her apron, Mrs White produced a lighter and lit the grill. “On your way back, can you set another place? Mr Blair’s brother turned up last night. Of course, no-one told me until this morning which means I have to stretch what food we have until I can go shopping this afternoon. I’ll have to ask Mrs Blair for some more money. There’s no room prepared for him either, so he can bunk in with the crackpots in The Stables.”

“I wasn’t aware Mr Blair had a brother.”

“It’s the first time he’s visited for at least six years or so.” Mrs White elegantly laid strips of bacon onto a hotplate. She continued to speak over the sizzling meat. “Why he should show up now, Christ knows. That’s all we need, Russell Blair souring the atmosphere.”

“How do you mean?”

“The brothers get along but there’s a clash of personalities. The brother is practical and down to earth, whereas Mr Blair…well, you’ve met him yourself, dear. He’s away with the fairies half the time, pretending his soul is tortured because he keeps losing his moose.”

“Don’t you mean muse?”

Mrs White groaned. “It was a joke. He’s as crackers as the idiots who visit this place, especially that lot staying with us for the next two weeks. You’ve only got to look at the black room and the white room to see that.”

Rosie smirked as she lifted the tray. “What time is breakfast again?”

Mrs White gasped in annoyance. “The oddballs come down at half-past eight, just like it was yesterday and the day before, so chivvy chivvy.” Mrs White gestured a shoving motion with both hands before returning to the bacon.

Rosie was halfway to the door before Mrs White called after her.

“And don’t forget, Rosie, if that vegan asks again, the banana pancakes are definitely not cooked in the same pan as the black pudding and sausages.”

Rosie was confused. “But, only yesterday, you said you had no intention of washing two pans.”

Mrs White gave a sly wink. “What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her, and besides, she could do with some protein. You can almost see through her skin, it’s that pale.”

Rosie continued out of the kitchen to traipse the long walk to Mr Blair’s offices.

***

8:23am

Leaving the kitchen, Rosie entered a hallway with the family dining room located to her left, the entrance hall ahead and Mr Blair’s offices down a corridor to the right. The door to the family dining room opened and Charlotte strode through, lost in her thoughts, only noticing Rosie until they nearly collided.

Charlotte snarled. “Watch where you’re going, you silly girl.”

“Sorry,” said Rosie, her gaze fixed on the breakfast tray.

Charlotte’s patience was short. “Is that Mr Blair’s breakfast?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Pushing her sleeve to reveal her watch, Charlotte glanced down and muttered under her breath before resuming her coarse attitude towards the maid. “One thing you need to learn, young lady, is never to keep Mr Blair waiting. Now, hurry along.”

Rosie nodded and rushed through the right-hand door, the crockery and cutlery clanking as she scurried. Her heart sank when she passed the laundry room. She understood, once breakfast was complete, she would be spending most of her shift in its hot, steaming atmosphere, the pungent stink of detergent burrowing into every pore that only a hot shower and exfoliating sponge could remove. At the end of the corridor, the passageway split. Straight ahead opened into the guest dining room, whereas following it to the left led to Mr Blair’s offices. When she was out of Charlotte’s sight, Rosie slowed her pace allowing her to balance the tray without its contents clinking together. She sensed a trickle of sweat down her back before making her way along the left-hand corridor until it turned ninety-degrees to the right. Mr Blair’s white room and black room were located at the far end of a long, dim passageway, curiously isolated with no other doors branching off it. Even on her first day, she’d remarked to Mrs White how much of a peculiar design choice it was. What was more bizarre was the sight of a man kneeling at one of the doors.

The clink of the plate against the jug of icy water caused the man to stand with a start. He cleared his throat, smoothed his rucked, tight-fitting jumper, and walked away from the offices and towards Rosie. She could not help noticing how handsome he was; tall, blue eyes, sharp jaw, and a hairstyle just long enough for it to flop when he walked. Her inability to avert her eyes was an invitation for the man to introduce himself and explain why he was crouching at one of the doors.

The man’s six-foot stature overshadowed Rosie’s petite frame and his deep timbre fluttered her stomach. “Another warm morning, which means another hot day come lunch time I’ll wager. It’s not a day to be working.”

Rosie’s mouth went dry. “No sir.”

“You must be the new girl I’ve heard about. I’d shake your hand,” he said, his lips raising at the corners, “but you’re already fully laden.”

“It’s Mr Blair’s breakfast.”

The man glanced over his shoulder. “Of course. He rarely eats with the rest of us degenerates. I’m Wilf, Wilf Toft. My wife and I are staying in the Granary. I thought I’d pop across and speak to Mr Blair about rent amongst other details. By the sounds of it, there’s already somebody in there. I’ll come back later.”

Disappointed to learn he was married, Rosie considered the man’s explanation to be reasonable enough. How can someone so handsome be guilty of anything suspicious? Clamming up and unable to engage him in conversation, Rosie wobbled the reply, “Yes, Mr Toft.”

“You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

“Blackboard…” stammered Rosie.

“Blackboard?”

Rosie quickly corrected herself. “Thorne, Blackthorne, Rosie Blackthorne.”

“It was lovely to meet you, Rosie Blackthorne. I’m joining the guests for breakfast this morning, first time this week. I’ll no doubt see you later.” As soon as Wilf finished talking, he gave Rosie a friendly wink and continued along the corridor.

“Lovely to bacon you as well,” garbled Rosie, as her swooning mind failed to construct a coherent sentence.

With her brain temporarily addled, she continued to the offices at the end of the passageway. The two identical doors were a guessing game as to which one Mr Blair was behind. Apparently, according to Mrs White, it all depended on what mood he was in as to what reception she was going to receive, dour or cheerful. But in her brief experience in this new job, Mr Blair had always been in the white room. Today was no different and Wilf Toft was correct. She could hear dull mutterings emanating from the left-hand door. Knocking with her foot, the voices halted, the door was opened, and the stifling aroma of oily paint filled her nostrils. Two men stood in the room. The unkempt Alistair Blair was sat on the other side of the deep, wide, old-fashioned desk, whereas the man who was holding the door was a shaven, combed, more visually respectable and a less craggy version of the man behind the desk.

Alistair Blair clasped his hands in delight. “Aha, breakfast, I’m ravenous.”

Of course, he was cheery, deduced Rosie, glancing at the white ceiling and walls. Even though he was obviously in a good frame of mind, she chose to apologise. “Sorry, it’s late.”

Alistair gestured her to come closer. “Has my wife been giving you a hard time over it?”

Rosie did not want to speak out of turn, but her silence confirmed the answer to his question.

Alistair waved away the notion. “Ignore her. She likes to run a tight ship, but I must concede, her tight running of that said ship is just an excuse to bully others of which she enjoys immensely.”

Rosie heard a chortle from the other man as she placed the tray on the desk.

“Bacon, eggs and hash browns, non-wholemeal toast, a superb haul. A jug of cold water as well, good thinking. One needs it on a day like today.” Alistair beamed with delight. “Mrs White knows how to wriggle onto my good side. Is she after another day off?”

Rosie remained silent knowing her place was not to converse with the master of the house, at least according to Charlotte Blair’s rules.

Alistair continued. “Rosie, let me introduce you to my younger brother, Russell.”

Rosie turned and gave a modest curtsy.

“Nice to meet you, Rosie,” said Russell.

Rosie studied Russell’s face. His friendly eyes, wide nose and rounded cheeks gave him the semblance of a younger yet just as slim, Alistair Blair.

“Rosie is the granddaughter of Harold Blackthorne. Do you remember him?” said Alistair, his attention turning to his brother.

“Old handyman Blackthorne? I do indeed,” said Russell.

With a triumphant point of a finger, Alistair exclaimed, “Precisely.” He turned his attention back to Rosie. “Any news regarding my broken radiator? Egypt was not as hot as this.”

Rosie shook her head. “I’ve not seen Miss Stanslow yet.”

“If you see her, tell her I was enquiring, will you?”

“Yes, Mr Blair.” Not wanting to fall farther behind in her duties for fear of another tongue lashing from Charlotte, Rosie said, “If you’ll excuse me, I need to be getting on with breakfast.”

“Indeed,” said Alistair. “In fact, Russell will see you in the dining area very soon as he’s staying with us for a few days.”

Rosie backed out of the door allowing Russell to close it. Quickening her pace but checking for signs of Charlotte at every corner, she soon reached the kitchen.

“I’ve just met him,” said Rosie, filling the milk jug.

“Who?” asked Mrs White.

“Mr Blair’s brother. He seemed nice enough to me, neater, more presentable, plus, they were in the white room. His visit must’ve had a positive effect on Mr Blair.”

Mrs White snorted. “I’ll believe it when I see it.” After guiding a pan of fried mushrooms and tomatoes into a dish, the chunky cook peeked through the window to the courtyard. “Oh Christ, here they come.”

Rosie raised her head and through the lead, criss-crossed window observed the guests making their way from the stable block to the house.

“It’s like chucking out time at the asylum,” continued Mrs White. “The themed breaks, the science conferences and painting retreats are usually attended by like-minded people, all similar, all respectable, people who can at least function in society. But these open weeks, Christ on a bike…” Mrs White clattered a pan and ladle into the sink, “…we get all sorts of dregs attending.”

“Dregs with money, though,” added Rosie.

“Don’t remind me. Snobby twits who’ve never had to do a day’s work in their lives. Easy money, not like this job,” said Mrs White, blowing her nose on her apron and then wiping her hands on the same apron but in a different spot. “I could do with some of their cash at the moment. My mortgage is crippling me.”

“Some of them seem ok. The older lady who talked to me yesterday was nice.”

“Don’t be fooled. Scratch away the surface and who knows what sort of repressed horrors this lot are hiding. A clown’s gallery the lot of them.” Mrs White approached the fridge, removed a pot of yoghurt and spooned several dollops into a bowl. “Have you seen the pamphlet for this place and the photo of the lasagne to represent the food?”

“I’ve not. But you made lasagne last night, didn’t you?”

“There’s a bloke staying this week who complained it didn’t taste like the one in the brochure. I’ll tell you dear, you’ve picked a bad week to start your new job.”

***

9:11am

Holding a jug of fresh orange juice, Rosie stood by the window of the guest’s dining room. She was waiting to be summoned either by one of the guests or by the ever-watchful Charlotte Blair, who was standing like a frowning gargoyle on the opposite side of the room. The eight paying guests sat around the twelve-seater table, all busy in hushed discussions with each other, all content with their breakfast-buffet choices. Even the permanently scowling, pale vegan appeared content with her ginger oatmeal and fluffy pancakes drenched with syrup. Not once had the surly woman interrogated her about the ingredients, the methods in how they were cooked and if any meat or dairy was prepared within a six-foot radius of what she was about to eat. Rosie’s mind went back to Mrs White, her unwashed pan and her indifference. If only the louring woman knew.

“Girl, could you move?”

Rosie’s attention was caught by a thin man aggressively snapping his fingers.

“Excuse me, girl. I said, could you move, you’re blocking the natural light. It’s bad enough eating in a house where the morning sun rises on the opposite side, but then to have a servant cheat us of what light we do have is quite irritating.”

Rosie glanced towards Charlotte whose response was to glare in return and follow it with a sharp jerk of the head. Apologising, Rosie stepped to one side.

“You could do us all a favour,” continued the man, “and stand in that spot at dinner for when the sun actively blinds us. Mind you,” the man turned back to the others, “from what’s already been served in this place, being unable to see what we’re eating might be a blessing.”

The others muffled chuckles soon petered out. Even the craggy gypsy woman and the half open-shirted, moustached man giggled; they were the two whom she had deemed ‘not too bad’, but she was beginning to revise her first impressions. Only the greying older lady with the sagging jowls, blotched skin and gathered hair did not react to the rude man. Rosie had an instant liking to her.

Feeling self-conscious and insignificant, Rosie’s mood lifted when the smooth tones of Wilf Toft entered the dining room, and sank when his attractive, chestnut-haired wife followed. Wilf held a chair for his other half before he sat. A gentleman as well, mused Rosie as Charlotte’s frantic arm gestures caught her attention. She had been summoned.

***

10:38am

The good news for Rosie was just three of the eight guests wanted new sheets. The consequence was the morning’s laundry had been completed ahead of schedule. After dusting the family dining room, the morning room and the drawing room, Rosie had moved on to the billiard room. In the previous two days she had been at Rhydsbury House, she had not observed anyone enter the billiard room whether it was to study, read or play snooker on the full-sized table. Dusting it every day seemed a futile exercise. Surely, twice a week would suffice, she rationalised, as she bounced snooker balls around the table. As she continued to spin the balls around the green baize, she contemplated her Grandfather’s suggestion of simply wiping a couple of surfaces and squirting a blast of furniture polish into the air. It would save time and effort, and, before she gave it a whirl, she heard raised voices.

Rosie studied the room, puzzled from where the sounds were coming from. She pushed aside the net curtains of one of the windows. Expecting to see an argument, she was surprised when there was no-one at the front of the house. Letting the net curtain fall, she leaned an ear towards the centre of the back wall. The voices were coming from the neighbouring room, and she placed a lobe against the Artex surface and listened.

Unable to discern the muffled speech, Rosie grabbed a whisky glass. Pressing the glass against the cream, textured wall, she held an ear to its base. She was confident it was the voices of a man and a woman but could not be sure whose voices they were.

“He’s got no money,” said the woman.

The man’s voice was exasperated. “Wasted it no doubt, just like the last time.”

“It’s expensive.”

“I know how expensive it is, but what do you want me to do about it? I don’t earn that much.”

“And I’ve run out of savings,” said the woman.

There was a pause before the man continued. “What about that trust fund?”

“He only gets that when he reaches twenty-five or if I die before then, which is unlikely.”

“Can’t he come back home?”

“He’s unable to afford the fare and besides, he wouldn’t want to, not to this place.”

From behind her, Rosie heard the turning of the door handle. She stood sharply away from the wall, whipped a duster from her apron and wiped the glass.

Hilary Stanslow, a short, dull, rabbit twitching of a woman stepped into the room. She spoke to herself in a weak, reedy, feeble tone. “Phew, it’s warm in here. Mind you, it’s warm everywhere.” Hilary interlocked her fingers as soon as she clocked Rosie and spoke with more articulation. “Ah, Rosie, I’ve been searching all over…” she paused. “…what are you doing?”

Rosie held up the glass in a duster covered hand.

Hilary continued. “You don’t need to go to all those lengths, not in here. You may as well just wipe the obvious surfaces and spray some polish into the air in case Mrs Blair comes checking.”

“Yes, Miss Stanslow,” said Rosie, disguising a grin.

“Our guests will be having a comfort break soon; would you mind fixing some tea, coffee and orange squash?”

Rosie nodded, “Yes, Miss Stanslow.” She placed the glass back on the tray and sprayed three seconds of polish towards the ceiling before closing the door behind her.

***

12:45pm

Rosie wiped a forearm across her perspiring forehead. The rumbling of her stomach must have been audible from the main entrance, it certainly seemed loud enough. She checked her watch. Only fifteen minutes until she can eat her lunch. While she collected the dirty plates from the guest dining room, she relished the upcoming half an hour the coolness of the cellar would provide, all the while devouring a plate of Mrs White’s sandwiches, potato wedges and something called ratatouille, a dish which did not sound appetising. She walked back to the kitchen and placed the pots on the central island.

“Is that the last of them?” asked Mrs White, filling one of the two dish washers.

“Just a couple of cups and the tablecloth.”

“Does it need changing? The cloth I mean, can we get away with turning it upside down?”

“I doubt it,” said Rosie, with a hint of frustration. “I’m positive one of the guests ate their lunch out of a trough.”

Mrs White tutted and stood. “I’ll grab those pots; you take Mr Blair his coffee and pudding.”

Rosie collected the tray. “But I don’t know where he is.”

Frowning, Mrs White checked her watch. “Was he not on his own in the family dining room?”

“No.”

Swilling her hands under the cold tap, Mrs White wiped them dry on the last clean spot of her apron. “In that case, as he’s been in a good mood, he’ll be in his white room.”

“Yes, Mrs White.”

Rosie collected the tray of coffee and pudding, left the kitchen and walked along the dog legged corridor until she reached the two office doors. Which one should she try? She could not hear any voices. Randomly choosing one, she balanced the tray on one of her hands before knocking and trying the handle of the left door. It rattled in its frame. Rosie tutted before inching to the right and turned the handle of the other door. To her relief, it turned, Mr Blair was obviously in this room. She gripped the tray with both hands while she pushed with a gentle foot. Instantly, the oil-paint-infused, oppressive, hot air escaped and wafted over her perspiring, damp skin.

“Pudding, Mr Blair,” said Rosie, as she stepped into the room.

The tray crashed to the ground spilling the pot of coffee and rhubarb crumble across the wooden floor. In front of her, under the bright, white glow of the ceiling, the body of Charlotte Blair lay slumped in the chair in front of the oak desk, her face a grim blue, her usual reddish lips a macabre shade of purple. Those protruding eyes which had always scared Rosie had bulged further out of their sockets, bloodshot, inert and dead. A lopping tongue hung limply from her open mouth. Spittle dribbled from its tip, over her lips and chin to the thin, red slit across her neck.

The horror caused Rosie’s eyes to widen, her skin to freeze and her breathing to stutter. Holding a palm to her mouth, she backed out of the room before slamming the door and bolting down the corridor, screaming and bouncing off the walls as she sprinted.