The Curious Case of the Whimsical Widow

Chapter 4 - A Quivering Dove

Lily has always taken pride and joy in the tastefully decorated foyer of the only property that doesn't form part of her late husband's estate.

She'd fallen in love with the three-storey townhouse with its towers, turrets, and dormers, forming complex roof lines, the moment she'd seen it while taking a carriage ride with Lord Percy. Though rather pitiful in comparison with Percival's properties, it had seemed to Lily like a miniature palace for a tiny princess.

It has always been her preferred residence, even when the Marquess was alive.

She decorated the house herself. Each statue, vase and piece of furniture was carefully selected and placed with love. Now, that love has been invaded by violence and trampled by the jaded shoes of police officers.

Lily feels no relief at their departure. She is painfully aware of the last remaining constable's obnoxiously interested eyes studying her from his seat at the front door. She has no idea what the etiquette is in dealing with a policeman left behind to guard the scene of a crime, and right now, she truly doesn't care.

The floor of the foyer is covered in dirty footprints and debris from the broken bannister, but that is not what causes her to run to the staircase and flee up the steps to her bedroom the first chance she gets. The pool of blood congealing thick and dark red on the white marble does that.

Her nerves are in a tangle after her eventful meeting with the insufferable detective, and she longs for the isolation of her bedroom. Storming inside and closing the door behind her, she stops to catch her breath, resting her back against the carved wood slab, closing her eyes and willing her heart to stop racing and her hands to stop their incessant trembling.

It doesn't work, of course, and she's soon sliding to the floor, pulling up her knees and hugging her legs, shoving her face into the pretty fabric of the dress she never wants to see again. Yesterday, she was looking forward to wearing it for the first time. The occasion turned out to be much too memorable for her ever to want to wear it again.

Once the sobs tearing through her body finally subside, she drags herself back to her feet, aggressively pulling at laces and yanking buttons from their holes until she is able to step out of the dress. Leaving it in a heap on the ground, wearing only her frilly underwear, she stumbles to her bed and collapses face-first onto the eiderdown quilt. She finds a measure of comfort in the familiarity of the bedding against her skin and the subtle hint of Jasmine teasing her nose. When she runs out of oxygen, she turns her head to breathe, and as her eyes focus on the mountain of luxurious pillows stacked at the head of her beautiful bed, her heart nearly jerks to a stop in shock.

On the lilac, rose, and cream pillows lies one perfect, long-stemmed white Calla lily, a flower not generally found in London. Only one person whom Lily knows brings her beautiful flowers from other parts of the world. Where her heart would normally leap with joy at what the flower's presence means, it now shrivels and dies in the grip of cold fear, settling nauseatingly in the pit of her stomach.

"No," she whimpers. "No, no, no, no! This cannot be happening!"

Scrambling onto her knees, she scurries to the bed's head to take the flower in her hands, wishing that she's only dreaming. Her breath bursts from her lungs in short, frightened gasps as she cradles the waxy white head in the palm of her hand, feeling its texture against her skin.

Her mind made up, she slips off the bed and hurries to the windows, lifting the drapes away to look out over the balcony and the back gardens. She's relieved to find it empty; the police were in the process of leaving the premises when she ran upstairs, and there's no one left in the backyard. She can tell from the boot marks in the flower beds that they were trampling her plants while searching the garden for signs of entry.