Page 12 of The Curious Story of the Missing Lady
He looked up now, and his expression changed. “God, what is it, child?”
“A man came into Madeline’s room and said ...”
“What is it? What man?”
She shook her head. “The ... the butcher’s man ...”
“What butcher’s man? What are you talking about?”
“Oh, Papa ...” she began.
There was a sound from upstairs. A scream.
Lord Stamford’s face became a mask of panic.
#
“Stop!” said the voice that had screamed. “Stop, you! Stop!”
It was Mary, a young servant girl who’d come up with a supply of flowers for the groomsmen. The flowers lay scattered at her feet as Lady Emily and her father came upon the girl at the top of the stairs. Her hands were at her mouth, her teeth clenched.
“He went there, My Lord!”
“Who? Who was it?”
“He had Lady Madeline draped over his shoulder! Oh, he was terrible. Like some kind of devil from the pit! He escaped through the servant’s passage, sir!”
Lord Ambrose hastened toward the hidden door in the wall – no longer hidden now that it stood ajar.
He called back to his daughter. “Notify Mr Foster. Tell him and Giles to marshal the rest of the staff. Tell them to block all exits. I want this house sealed!”
“Yes, Papa!” she cried as she hurried back down the stairs, panic arising in her bosom as if stirred by some terrible wind.
Giles, the first footman, was coming towards her at the bottom of the stairs.
“Is there a problem, M’Lady?”
“Lady Madeline has been taken.”
“Taken!”
She panted and fought to catch her breath. “His Lordship wants you and Mr Foster to round up the rest of the staff and guard all exits.”
“Yes, M’Lady,” he said, and was off like a shot.
“Oh,” she whispered, a sob catching her breath. “God help us.”
Chapter 7
I swear it,thought Lord Ambrose,if but a single hair on her head has been harmed, you shall hang high above the town.
The servants’ passage descended down a treacherous flight of steps. The space was just wide enough for one man and lighted just enough for that man to see his way through without faltering. That is, were that man not wracked with freezing dread and searing desperation. He stumbled once and swore an oath, allowing the frustration of it all to fuel his rage. Getting to his feet, he threw his hands against the opposite walls and propelled himself forward.
Nearing the end of the passage, once more he stumbled, and his rage became great indeed as it now mixed with horror, for it was the body of Mr Foster he had tripped over.
The body groaned and stirred.
“Foster! Foster ol’ boy!”
