Tracy Kiely - Murder at Longbourn

When I awoke, my legs and arms were bound with some sort of clothesline and a rag was jammed into my mouth. The left side of my head was on fire and my right leg ached. Frantically, I struggled against the ropes, but to no avail. The gag in my mouth cut my air intake to a mere trickle and my throat spasmodically retched, trying to force it out. Waves of panic overtook me. Then I did what I always do in stressful situations. I started counting.

By the time I hit 325, my breathing had calmed down and my pounding heart no longer sounded like a jackhammer in my ears. I was lying on a smooth cement floor, apparently in the basement. From the way my body felt, Jackie must have sent me tumbling head over ass down the stairs. At first, it seemed pitch-black around me, but slowly my eyes adjusted. A quick inventory wasn’t encouraging. In one corner of the basement there appeared to be a few discarded painting supplies. In the other, white cardboard boxes were precariously stacked on an old kitchen table. Luggage and a dirty mop took up the third corner. The fourth corner was bare except for a few cobwebs and dead flies. Across from me stood a hatchway to the outside, a large metal padlock hanging from the latch.

I decided to start with the boxes—they might contain something sharp that I could use to saw at the ropes. I rolled myself over toward the table, whimpering in pain as my leg dragged with each turn. Finally, I was able to pull myself up to my knees. I was upright, but my head was spinning and my leg was throbbing. The room swayed and I feared I might pass out again, but thankfully everything came back into focus. Straining my eyes, I peered at the boxes on the table. They were sealed and, according to the neat lettering printed on each one, held nothing more than old sheets and towels.

Time for Plan B, I thought, as I dragged myself like a wounded crab in the direction of the painting supplies. Here, my efforts were more rewarding. On one of the paint trays lay a painting razor blade, one side covered with a protective plastic coating. With my hands tied behind my back, I backed into the supplies and blindly groped for the razor. Once I had it, I jabbed at the thick ropes. I was glad that at least my left hand was tied over my right, so I could hold the blade. My movements were clumsy and weak, and the razor fell from my uncooperative fingers twice, but it finally sliced through my bonds and the ropes loosened and slid from around my wrists. Yanking the rag out of my mouth, I greedily sucked in the damp air before I started sawing at the clothesline around my ankles.

When that fell to the floor, I collapsed back onto the ground. My arms felt like rubber and my legs felt even worse. Any attempt to put weight on my right leg made me see stars. Other than the door at the top of the stairs, the only way out of the basement was through the padlocked hatchway. My only hope was going up the stairs and trying the door, but in my current condition those stairs might as well have been Mount Everest. Nevertheless, I rolled over and crawled to the bottom. My progress, one step at a time, was slow and painful, but finally I was on the top step. I grabbed the knob. It was locked. I pulled myself up and switched on the light. A bulb at the bottom of the stairs blazed forth and I blinked several times at the sudden brightness.

I saw a large metal flashlight hanging from a hook on the wall by the door. I grabbed it and sank onto the top step before I eased back down the stairs. At the bottom, I reached up and twisted the bulb out of its socket. The inky darkness was claustrophobic, but at least when Jackie returned, she wouldn’t have light to guide her. It wasn’t much, but it was something. Clicking on the flashlight, I searched every inch of the basement. I found nothing, and my efforts to smash the lock on the hatchway were futile. A razor and a flashlight were all I could muster to defend myself against a gun. I would just have to make do and ambush her as best I could. I lay back down on the floor where Jackie had left me and waited.

After what seemed a dark eternity, I thought I could hear her moving around upstairs. I don’t know how long I had lain there—it seemed like hours. The pains in my leg and my head were draining my energy. Eventually, the house fell silent. I struggled to remain awake, but my eyes grew heavy. The next thing I knew there was a hand on my shoulder. Disoriented, I jerked awake, my heart pounding. This was my only chance. I rolled over and slammed the flashlight as hard as I could into Jackie’s head. She fell back with a thud.

My flashlight did the job, all right, but I stared in horror at the crumpled form that lay beside me. It was Peter.

Is not general incivility the very essence of love?

—JANE AUSTEN, PRIDE AND PREJUDICE

“PETER!” I YELPED. “Oh, God, Peter! Speak to me!” I scrambled to his side and clicked on the flashlight. Blood poured from a nasty gash on his right temple and his face was a terrible shade of gray. The thought that I had actually killed him produced a sharp and sickening tightening in my chest, the intensity of which took me by surprise. The memory of my jest to Bridget that the minute Peter fell gravely ill, I would forgive him rushed over me and I felt sick. I cared for Peter, I really cared for Peter! I had let my anger from events fifteen years ago spoil everything. It figures, I thought bitterly. I finally meet the perfect guy and then I go and blow it by smashing his head in. He might have forgiven me for the dead fish in his bed, but this was different. Blood was involved. Cupping his face, I said, “Peter! It’s me, Elizabeth! Can you hear me?”

He moved his head and moaned peevishly. “What the hell did you do that for? I risk my neck to save you and this is the thanks I get?”

I sagged back with a rush of relief; he was alive. “I thought you were Jackie,” I whispered. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Where is she?”

“Jackie? Jackie’s dead,” said Peter, groaning. “And I was the one who got hit in the head?” Gingerly he raised his hand to his head and tried to sit up. He made it only halfway.

“Jackie’s not dead. She killed Linnet and is pretending to be Linnet. Where is she? Is she still upstairs?”

“Are you okay? Did she hurt you? What happened?”

“I’m fine. Well, I think I did something to my leg, but other than that, I’m okay. Is Jackie still upstairs?”

He took a long time answering. “Peter!” I repeated, shaking him. “Is she here?”

“Please stop that,” he said, wincing. “She left.”

“Peter, listen to me. She’s going to kill us. She has a gun. We have to get out of here, but I hurt my leg and I can’t walk. You’ve got to call the police.”

“Police,” he repeated, but his voice sounded faint. I shook him again. Hard. He tried to slap my hand away, but he was so weak it felt like the brush of a feather. He sank back onto the floor. I had to keep him talking. I had to keep him awake. “Peter, listen to me. How did you know I was here?” I heard the panic in my voice.

He was such a long time in answering that I thought he had passed out, but finally he opened his eyes. They were unfocused, but his voice sounded stronger. “I didn’t,” he said. “When you didn’t come back to the inn, I got worried. Aunt Winnie said you’d come here, so I came looking for you. But Linnet said you left hours ago. I saw your earring on the floor. Something seemed wrong, so I left and then doubled back. When she went out, I broke in.” The effort of this short speech drained him. He closed his eyes. The right side of his head was now covered in blood.

I reached down and cupped his face. He leaned his head into the palm of my hand. “Elizabeth,” he muttered, “don’t be mad. I was only trying to help.”