The Curious Case of the Whimsical Widow

Chapter 2 - Enter the Knight

"The lead detective would like to speak to you now, my lady," Andrew says from the drawing room door, startling Lily back to the present from her long journey through memory lane. She'd been so lost in thought that she didn't even hear the butler knock or enter.

When her mind and heart are in turmoil, she often sits in this mahogany grandfather chair, gazing up at the portrait of Percival Lupine dominating the wall above the fireplace. In the painting, he is much younger than he was when he married her. He is young and happy, his face lacking the sadness that always pulled at her heart. 

Though she didn't know him when he had this face, and it doesn't have the craggy wisdom she found so comforting, she is still drawn to this painting for reassurance. It might be because Percy seems so vibrant and alive in it, with thick dark hair and an endearing smile. She loves to imagine him alive and vibrant again now, reunited with the family he loved and lost. 

In the painting, he is a shy, somewhat awkward young man with a brilliant mind and a generous heart. He had the world at his feet and his fortune stretching out before him, and he used his talents and wealth to lead a full and productive life. He achieved so many good things in the 80 years he'd been alive. 

Lily wishes that she'd been by his side as his wife for more than just three years of his long and eventful life. She knows with a certainty that goes beyond any doubt that if she'd been born into a better class and met the Marquess in his prime, she would've fallen desperately in love with him and given him many children if he wanted her.

He was 75 years old when he married her five years ago. He died childless, leaving her behind as his only heir. 

Both a blessing and a curse.

Feeling better after her visit with her late husband's portrait, Lily rises from her seat, straightens her skirt and elegantly walks to the drawing room door. She has scarcely set foot in the foyer when her courage leaves her, scurrying away between the feet and legs of the policemen milling about, collecting evidence and documenting the scene where Oliver French is still lying in his own blood.

At least someone covered him with a sheet. The sight of the slowly congealing blood pooling under the gentle hand, lying quiet and curled outside the edge of the white cloth, causes Lily's throat to close and her feet to stumble. Panick coils like a snake through her intestines, fear and sorrow cutting off her breath until she can barely manage shallow puffs of air.

She sucks back a strangled sob and willingly follows when an arm wraps around her waist, turning her away from the dreadful scene. She'd managed to send the awful images of Oliver lying in her foyer to the dusky regions at the back of her mind, where they were nothing more than vague shadows among other horrible, vague shadows. Abruptly coming face-to-face with reality again has brought it all back in vibrant colour, and this time, she cannot push it away.

"Let's talk in there, shall we?" a gravelly voice speaks near her ear, causing shivers to vibrate through her body, driving away the terror snakes.

"Yes," she says, the one-syllable word all she can manage. She's distantly aware of Andrew opening the door to the drawing room, allowing the man to escort her inside before he closes it behind them, leaving them alone.

"No!" she exclaims when the detective leads her to the settee. Slipping from his steadying arm, she hurries to one of the wingback chairs set at angles to the settee instead. She simply cannot sit on that settee and speak to the policeman about Ollie's death.

Less than a week ago, the young man was lounging on that very seat, laughing and teasing her in the sweet, endearing way he used to. She finds the idea of discussing his death in the same spot where he'd gasped in ecstasy a few minutes later too obscene and upsetting to handle.