Wendell Sykes sat in an armchair in the drawing room of Collinwood, a snifter full of Jamison Collins' brandy in one hand. He was here at Nora's invitation. He had a strong suspicion that her brother wouldn't be too keen on the idea of her having gentleman callers, but no matter - her brother was at the cannery. Nora was perched on a loveseat prattling on about something. Not that he wasn't listening; he technically heard every word she said. He made sure to keep his eyes locked on hers, and he nodded and chuckled and sometimes even stroked his goatee thoughtfully.
Finally she stood up and announced that she was going to make some tea. "That would be lovely," he agreed. In her absence, he decided to have a little look around the mansion. Even if she came back first and found he was gone, he figured he could tell her that he just couldn't resist exploring the architecture of her beautiful home.
Lucy McGregor stood once more at the sickbed of Rebecca Collins, as she had done when she slipped the little sachet into the woman's pillow. The sachet had not worked; Rebecca's condition was the same. She must have made it wrong, somehow. Lucy had gone into Nora's room and used the witchboard, had tried to beseech some dark force to help her, but no help had come. She must not have done that right either.
There was no other way.
Rebecca Collins' eyes opened and she looked up at Lucy; perhaps she had sensed someone standing over her, or perhaps she just happened to awake at this moment. She looked at Lucy curiously.
"I've been waiting, Mrs. Collins," Lucy told her. "Waiting for you to die."
Rebecca's eyes widened in shock.
"Miss… McGregor!" Mrs. Collins choked as angrily as she could, considering she had almost no voice. "How… dare you!" There was a pause as Mrs. Collins caught her breath and Lucy smiled at her. "You're… dismissed! Pack… your things."
"You cannot dismiss me," Lucy laughed. "You may have had the authority, once. But you are no longer the lady of the house. You are almost nothing." Mrs. Collins could only lay there and stare at her - she had used a lot of energy on her last few sentences. "You are a shadow," Lucy continued. "A shadow of a woman. You have been wasting away. You are useless. But you see, I have been of service." She was so bursting with pleasure that her words gushed from her like lava. "Yes, Mrs. Collins, as you have lain here, I have been taking care of your husband. Indeed, I have been fulfilling his needs."
Any trace of color that might have been in Rebecca's pale face now drained away. She understood. Lucy saw that she understood.
"No," Mrs. Collins breathed, her voice so frail that the word was a wisp of air, barely a word at all.
"Yes. I wanted Jamison from the first moment I saw him. Oh God, I wanted him so." As she spoke of her desire she turned her eyes up to the heavens, her face flushed with ecstasy almost as though she were being pleasured at that very moment. "We do it in unnatural methods. Sometimes I let him put it in my bottom. Sometimes in my mouth!" Lucy's voice raised to a shriek. Mrs. Collins squeezed her eyes tightly shut.
In the low, throaty rasp of her weak voice, Mrs. Collins declared, "Whore." Lucy thought it sounded like the croak of a frog, and she giggled.
Lucy picked up one of the pillows from the bed and pressed it onto Mrs. Collins' face. "Die," she whispered.
For a moment, Rebecca Collins saw images in her mind that she never wished to see - visions of her beloved husband, the father of her children, thrusting himself into this tramp who was now murdering her. Thankfully, the image faded, and during her final moment the picture she saw in her head was her daughter. Elizabeth. Little Liz as a baby - happy, chubby, gurgling. Her cheeks rosy and cherubic. Her thick curls, blonde then, before her hair darkened. Her eyes, so blue and wide in wonderment at the world around her, so much to discover...
Lucy could take the suspense no longer. She lifted the pillow. Mrs. Collins stared at the ceiling.
Lucy was unsure of how to proceed. She wanted to verify that she had accomplished her task. She had heard of "taking someone's pulse," but wasn't sure how it was done.
"Take her pulse," someone said aloud, and Lucy's heart leapt into her throat.
Wendell Sykes was standing in the doorway, and he actually looked amused. Lucy couldn't say anything ; she had never been more terrified in her life.
Sykes grinned. "If you're wondering how long I've been standing here, I believe I came in around 'Sometimes he puts it in my bottom.'" He laughed. She gazed at him in shock and fear, still speechless. "You seem to be wondering if she's dead," he continued. "Take her pulse."
Lucy finally found her voice. "I don't know how."
"Ah." Wendell strode over and took Rebecca's limp, white wrist in his hand. He held it a moment, then dropped it and put his hand to her neck. "Out of her misery," he declared cheerfully. "Here's another method that might be simpler for an uneducated girl such as yourself." He took a hand mirror from a nearby vanity and handed it to Lucy. "Hold it near her mouth and nose," he instructed, and Lucy did so. The mirror did not fog.
"Now," Wendell said briskly. "The first order of business is to get out of this room." He gestured to the door. "After you, dear."
Lucy glanced at Mrs. Collins, white and wide-eyed on her pillow, then hurried out of the room. Wendell followed her into the hall, closing the bedroom door behind them. "Now we need a place we can have a nice, private chat."
"There are unused guest quarters over here," she muttered, and they let themselves into an empty bedroom. Wendell rounded on her the moment the door clicked shut.
"Nora's inheritance," he said unceremoniously. "How much is it?"
"I don't know the figure," Lucy said. "The bulk of the estate belongs to Jamison as the eldest child. Of course Nora has a tidy sum herself."
Wendell nodded, stroking his goatee. "And the house?"
"The house?"
"If Nora were to marry, could she bring her husband here, or would she be expected to make a home with him elsewhere?
"Her choice. She does have the right to call Collinwood home as long as she lives."
Wendell grinned widely. "Excellent. Now, my dear, I'm sure you understand the nature of our new friendship, but I shall give you an outline nonetheless. I will not speak of the little scene I just witnessed in Mrs. Collins' quarters. You will help ensure that Jamison Collins remains, for now, ignorant of my relationship with Nora."
"Ignorant of your relationship?" Lucy repeated skeptically. "Do you suppose you can keep it from him?"
"As I say - for now. He will find out in due time… when I want him to."
Lucy looked unconvinced but didn't argue.
"You will also help convince Nora how happy she'll be as my bride. I don't think she'll need much convincing, but every little bit helps, eh?"
Lucy thought she was getting off rather easily. He had witnessed her committing murder, but all she had to do was gush about him to Nora and maybe lie to Jamison. But she wished she wasn't involved at all. Killing Mrs. Collins had seemed like her only option; now she wasn't so sure.
She must have looked downcast, for Wendell exclaimed, "Come now, surely these little tasks are not too difficult!"
"Of course not," she replied. "I will do whatever you ask. I am only having second thoughts about killing Mrs. Collins."
Wendell laughed.
"I fail to see the humor," Lucy said.
"I'm sure you do," he replied, still chuckling. She frowned. "Cheer up, little lady," he said brightly. "You know what you want, and, in your own crude fashion, you go after it." He gave her a toothy grin. "We shall be very good friends, I think. We are, after all - very much alike."
That evening Bess Grossman went to bring Mrs. Collins her supper, and found that the lady of the house had finally succumbed to her long illness. The matronly housekeeper immediately informed Mr. Collins, who retreated into his study to make funeral arrangements.
