Chapter 8 - Blood on the Conservatory Glass
Arthur stood like a ghost summoned from the grave. He was leaning heavily against the ornate mahogany balustrade of the second-floor gallery, the smoking barrel of the shotgun pointed downward toward the shattered entrance of the master wing. Every breath he took rattled in his chest, an agonized wheeze that was audible even through the cracked conservatory glass.
Grace scrambled backward along the copper gutter, her fingers clawing at the slate shingles. ""Mr. Whitfield!"" she called out, her voice swallowed by the wind.
Inside the gallery, Arthur didn't look up toward the roof. He couldn't. His motor functions were clearly failing, the trauma to his skull sapping his vision and coordination. He broke the action of the shotgun, his trembling fingers fumbling into his pocket for another shell, but he dropped it; the heavy red plastic cartridge rolled across the floorboards and slipped through the balusters, falling two stories down onto the foyer marble.
A shadow detached itself from the gloom of the east wing corridor behind him.
Elena Vance—the false Victoria—stepped into the light of the chandelier. The hem of her champagne gown was stained with grime and Donald’s blood, but her grip on the pearl-handled revolver was unwavering. She didn't shout. She didn't sneer. She simply stepped forward with cold, predatory efficiency, closing the distance between them.
""You always were stubborn, Arthur,"" her voice drifted out through the broken transom above. ""You should have stayed on the floor. It would have looked like an accident. Now it looks like a slaughter.""
Grace knew Arthur couldn't hear her, and he couldn't see the woman approaching his blind side.
Desperation seized Grace. She reached out, unhooking a heavy cast-iron gutter bracket that had rusted loose from the eaves. She swung the bracket with all the strength left in her arms and smashed it through the nearest pane of the conservatory skylight.
The glass exploded downward in a glittering cascade, showering the lower terrace in sharp fragments.
The sharp concussive sound broke the silence. Arthur spun around instinctively, swinging the heavy wooden stock of the empty shotgun like a club. The blow caught Elena across the forearm, knocking the revolver from her grasp. The gun went skittering across the gallery floor, sliding over the polished edge and plummeting down toward the grand foyer.
Elena hissed, lunging forward with bare hands, wrapping her fingers around Arthur's throat. Arthur, already weakened from blood loss, collapsed under her weight. The two rolled across the gallery floor, locked in a brutal struggle, teetering perilously close to the low railing above the marble drop.
Grace dragged herself back up the slate roof toward the open transom window. The broken glass sliced through her apron, cutting deep lines into her forearms, but she ignored the pain. She hauled herself over the sill, falling back into the blood-spattered master bath.
She sprinted through the ruined bedroom doors and out onto the gallery landing.
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Elena was on top of Arthur, her thumbs driving mercilessly into his windpipe, her face contorted in psychotic rage. Arthur's hands beat weakly against her wrists, his face turning an alarming shade of mottled violet.
Grace didn't pause. She lowered her head and charged.
