Page 90 of Return Ticket

She couldn’t stand the thought of running for James while he either buried his victim alive or hit her with the shovel to make sure she was dead.

She couldn’t do it.

“Stop!” She shouted it as loudly as she could. “Put down the shovel.”

The killer’s head came up. She could barely make out his face but he was wearing what looked like a tweed coat under an open trench coat.

What did she do now? She hovered at the corner of the house, then turned her head toward the front. “James,” she called out. “Come right now.”

When she turned back, the killer had taken a step toward her.

That was good, she assured herself. She was distracting him from his plans. She took a step back herself, then glanced down the side of the house again, hoping James was coming.

Hoping that he’d heard her.

The back door of the mansion suddenly opened, and a man stood in the doorway, shining a torch out into the garden.

He was in a red brocade dressing gown, a shock of white hair standing up around his head. “What’s going on?” His voice was annoyed and a little creaky with age. “Who’re you?” The light from his torch landed on the killer, and for a moment, before the fog shifted and hid him, she saw the killer’s face clearly for the first time.

She didn’t know him.

He was thin almost to the point of being gaunt, his nose a sharp blade in his unremarkable face. He turned toward the old man, shovel shifting in his hands in a way that spoke of violence.

“Get back in the house,” Gabriella shouted to the old man. “Phone the police.”

She spun and ran through weeds and long grass growing down the side of the house, into the front garden. “James!”

She heard the sound of running behind her, and glanced back.

It was a mistake.

She tripped over something and cried out as pain shot up her leg. She went down, banging her knee as she did on whatever it was she’d run into.

She sprawled face down, and then rolled over onto her back, feeling lightheaded with the white hot agony in her shin and foot.

The killer slowed, swinging the shovel up onto his shoulder as he stalked forward.

“What have we here?” His voice was what she thought of as BBC lite. Someone trying hard to sound like they grew up on an estate with a butler, and just not quite meeting the mark.

“That’s what I want to know.”

Gabriella twisted around as James stepped out of the fog.

She took the opportunity, while the killer was distracted, to push herself up, get her feet under her, and stand.

As she straightened, the front door opened, and the same old man in the dressing gown stepped out, this time with an ancient shotgun in his hands. In fact, it looked more like a blunderbuss.

“Now see here, I’ve called the police, and I want you off my property.”

“That’s very good, sir,” James called back. “Did they say how quickly they can be here?”

The old man seemed to blink in surprise. “Why? Do you need to know how quickly you need to get out of here?”

“No, sir. I’m Detective Sergeant Archer with the Metropolitan Police, and I would be grateful for some assistance from fellow officers.”

“Oh.” The old man disappeared inside, and with a sinking heart, Gabriella guessed he hadn’t actually called the police.

At least it seemed he was going to do so now.

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