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Whoever had done this had clearly wanted it seen.
Motioning for the others to hang back, he moved carefully toward the lights. What he saw as he approached with his lamp turned his stomach. Lying on the ground amid the candles was a skinned animal—it was indeed a dog—with a gaping hole in its chest where its heart had been carved out. He knew this because the missing organ lay beside the dog with a long knife embedded in it.
A smear of blood at the tip of his shoe caught his eye. He stepped back and lifted his lamp. A bloody message had been painted across the courtyard’s flagstones.
THE BITCH WILL DIE
Dread crept into Will’s veins. First, the message on the board. Now, this.
“What is it?” called the headmistress.
“Wait!” he shouted back. He peered into the courtyard’s dark corners but could make out very little. The lamp he carried effectively blinded him. More people were needed out here with lights to ensure the author of the gruesome message was gone. He began to head back—and was met by the headmistress.
“You ought not to—” he began, but it was useless. She strode right past him, lamp held high, and he was forced to follow.
Upon stopping, she stood and stared at the macabre tableau in silence.
“This is no prank,” he urged. “It’s a direct threat, and it must be reported.”
She continued to gaze at the bloody scene, the only indication that it disturbed her being the trembling of the lamp in her hand. “Monsieur Woodson, I don’t suppose I could prevail upon you to assist me in clearing this away? The children’s bedroom windows overlook this courtyard.”
“You may indeed—but first we must determine how the intruder got in and report this to the watch.” He glanced back to those waiting and marked that more of the staff had ventured out to cluster near the doorway. “We need more lights,” he called out. “And someone bring a sheet or a tablecloth. Keep the children in the dining hall until further notice!”
A few minutes later, they were joined by Mrs. Sloane, Mrs. Orson, and two of the kitchen staff.
“I warn you—it’s unpleasant,” he advised as they approached.
The women let out a collective gasp of dismay as Mrs. Sloane passed him a parcel of canvas.
He unfolded and draped it over the dead animal. “Mrs. Sloane, have you the key to the gate?” At her jerky nod, he held out his hand. “Will you please accompany me?”
The instant Will drew aside the heavy drape separating the courtyard from the construction area, he saw the gate had been left ajar. “I thought this was to be locked every day after MacCallum’s last man left?”
“It was locked,” the woman said, frowning. “I locked it myself!” Scuttling forward, she bent and took hold of the chain wrapped around the iron bars at the gate’s center and lifted it. The lock was still there, still closed, dangling from one end along with another shorter length of chain. Bending again, she lifted something from the ground and examined it. “It’s been cut!”
Holding his lamp close, Will saw the link she’d picked up looked as if it had been filed thin before being severed. “This took several nights’ work,” he murmured, turning it over in his palm. “Three or four, at least. Whoever did it could not have worked on it for any length of time without being discovered by the night watchman.”
“If it was done at night,” fumed Mrs. Sloane. “The lock and chain stay out all day—I saw no point in lugging it back and forth. One of MacCallum’s men must have tampered with it without me noticing. I never thought to check the links.”
He swung the gate closed and latched it, marking how quiet was its movement. On checking them, he saw the hinges had been freshly greased. “Have you any more chain like this inside?” He didn’t want to waste time examining each link for damage. There was too much else to be done.
“Aye. I’ll fetch it and tell Headmistress what’s happened.”
“Thank you. And tell her I said to wait with the others until we can get this gate secured again.” While he waited for her return, Will peered into the moonlit street, every sense straining as his gaze darted from shadow to shadow.
Trouvère’s initial reaction had been telling. Most women would’ve screamed on seeing such a message directed at them, or at the very least gasped in horror. Not her. With the exception of her shaking hands, she’d appeared utterly calm, almost resigned.
What the devil is really going on here?
It seemed forever before Mrs. Sloane returned with the promised length of chain, the lock, and three more staff members bearing additional lamps. Will breathed a little easier as he wrapped the chain around the bars and secured the entrance once more. Nothing had moved in the
shadows beyond, but he couldn’t dismiss the feeling that eyes were watching.
“Our carriage driver, Mr. Young, has been sent to fetch the constable,” Sloane told him as they made their way back.
He prayed it was someone he didn’t know. “Is there access to the school from the carriage house?” he asked her sharply.
“No,” answered Sloane. “The door between is locked and barred school-side. It’s a stout one, too—oak, thick as my wrist—same make as the Tower’s. A horse could not break it down.”
