Last weekend at Loxton Hall I’d found myself fighting a crazed, knife-wielding killer. That I escaped relatively unscathed was a miracle in itself and largely due to the timely arrival of a private investigator/private security man called Vince Slater. That particular wedding went from bad to worse and the ceremony never took place because there were other maniacs ready to commit murder after the first one was taken care of.
Somehow, though semi-famous local sleuth, Patricia Fisher, solved the case, I was involved from start to finish and was credited with helping. That world was not mine though. I didn’t run toward danger with an accomplished ninja butler at my side, I hustled smartly away from it instead like any normal person.
Yet as my foot twitched toward my car, another scream lit the air and the front door burst open.
John Ramsey ran from the house, leaving the door wide open in his flight. I gawped as he dug in his pocket for his keys. There was an obvious conclusion and I willingly leapt to it – he’d just done something to Derek Bleakwith and now he was running from the scene!
Honestly, I don’t know where it came from, but without thinking it through first, I ripped open the door to my Mercedes, yelled for Buster to get in and threw myself down into the driver’s seat. There was one way in and one way out of the Bleakwiths’ property and that was through the gate. Spitting gravel from my tyres, I backed up twenty yards and spun the steering wheel so my car blocked the exit completely. John could escape on foot, but he wasn’t driving anywhere.
I had the driver’s door open the whole time, and no seatbelt on. Leaning out with my head cranked around to see where I was going, I was acting like some kind of stunt driver. My free hand did its best to pin Buster in place on the passenger seat and got slobbered on because that’s what he does to show affection. My left shoulder protested – I managed to dislocate it a week ago and though it was healing, it wasn’t exactly happy about being used.
I yanked the handbrake on and slammed my door shut just as John Ramsey drove at me. My heart almost stopped when my brain performed a swift velocity and distance calculation to say I was about to get rammed.
Instead, he slammed on his brakes, sliding across the gravel to stop a few inches shy of my window. The bonnet of his Range Rover filled my vision, and the blast of horn deafened my ears. He backed the horn up with angry profanity, swearing at me to move out of his way.
I scooted across the central transmission tunnel, hooking my dress so it wouldn’t catch on the gear stick. Shoving the passenger door open, I said, ‘Out, Buster. Let’s go!’
‘We only just got in,’ he pointed out. ‘Where are we going now?’
‘Felicity needs to get out!’ I gave him a shove, which didn’t have a great deal of impact. Buster is basically a medium sized bean bag shaped sort of like a squat dog. If dogs were made of steel ball bearings that is, because he weighs about half a ton.
I gave up trying to get him to move and clambered over him, almost tumbling when I finally got my leading foot outside.
John was still shouting obscenities in my direction. He wanted to go, and his rage meter was in the red.
Of course, once I was out of the car, Buster thought we might be going somewhere interesting, so he got out too. I locked it quickly, grabbing Buster by his collar so we could get to the house.
However, John Ramsey was out of his car and he was mad. ‘Give me the something keys!’ he shouted, spittle flying from his lips. He didn’t actually say the word something as you might imagine. I don’t go in for bad language though so censored each word as they reached my ears.
‘I’ll let Buster go if I have to,’ I warned. ‘What did you do in the house? Did you hurt Derek?’
He didn’t answer my question, what he said was, ‘Give me the something keys or so something help me, I’ll something you right up the something!’
His horrible mouth made me shudder. Where did people learn to talk like that?
I let Buster go with a swift command. ‘Get him, Buster!’
It was only the dog making me feel brave, I can assure you. I’d never done anything this crazy before in my life, but as my dog tore across the three yards separating me from John Ramsey, I went to my right and across the front lawn to get to the house.
There were a score of windows at the front of the Bleakwiths’ property, all possessing that beautiful leaded design that suited the old house and thatched roof perfectly. Any modern touches on a house like this would ruin the look. However, though I could see into the house, I could not see anyone moving about and a terrible thought occurred to me.
Had John just murdered all three of them?
My head swung back in horror, now terrified the man might have a knife or something. If he did, then he wasn’t using it. He was on the bonnet of his car with Buster growling and barking from the ground. A larger dog would have jumped onto the bonnet in a single bound, but Buster would need a forklift truck to get that high.
Both were making a terrible racket; Buster barking maniacally, and John swearing in frustration at the dog who would not desist. Buster wanted the human to run away so he could give chase; that would be a fun game to play.