Suitable Victims

Edward was startled by the sudden screech of brakes. He stood up carefully, rubbing his arthritic knee and shuffled to the window. He peeled back the heavy curtains and light streamed in.

He scowled. Him again; the annoying estate agent.

Scanning the garden, he shook his head, even the ‘For Sale’ sign looked pretentious. ‘Mark Taylor - Durham’s Premier Estate Agent’ it bragged in bold, gothic lettering.

The old man glared as he watched Taylor jump out of his sleek BMW, keys jangling.

Mark Taylor adjusted his scarf, thrust a clipboard under his arm and sauntered down the path, whistling tunelessly.

Of course – he’d had to carefully rehearse the sales pitch. Marketing anywhere known as the ‘House of Horror’ had its issues. But Mark loved a challenge. He would use its notoriety to his advantage. He knew the story, in all its gory detail. He also knew: murder SELLS.

He paused in the garden and looked around. The lawn was well trimmed. Spring flowers dotted the borders with vivid splashes. A stone statue of Venus looked classy amongst the potted plants. He smiled. They had done a very good job. It looked almost tranquil.

He turned back towards the bold, white exterior of the house. Spread over two floors, the central curved bay windows swept into polished black frames; two symmetrical towers held elegant court on either side.

There was no denying it was that house. It was hard to expunge the ubiquitous image, used to illustrate every newsflash, as the grim story of death was read out. Something was missing today. The grim faced PC standing outside with his arms tightly folded.

Mark climbed the marble steps to the front door, pausing to admire the artful, stained glass flowers that sparkled above the entrance. He was bound to make a killing on this one.

The brief had been very specific. The entire house was to undergo a very thorough restoration, replicating all particulars in accordance with its pre massacre condition. That part had been fairly straightforward given the volume of crime scene photos. Mark had seen them all and even he had flinched at some of them.

Flicking quickly through his papers, he tapped on the names of today’s clients - Mr Hugo and Mrs Lucy Gilby. They had been house hunting for some time. Nowhere met with their very demanding specifications. They particularly wanted somewhere different. Well, what could be more unique than a house with a past?

His pen dotted tetchily on the page. “Where the bloody hell are they?” He detested lateness.

In his room, Edward was just about to sit down when the wrought iron garden gates swung open once more. He pressed his pallid face hard against the glass. Who would it be this time?

Hugo Gilby, not particularly handsome, late thirties, strode down the path. He wore a black blazer over a pale shirt. He wasn’t smiling.

Lucy Gilby, teetering dangerously in a pair of tan high heels, followed him. Her hair was long and chocolate brown, an expensive leather day bag perched precariously over her outstretched arm.

“You must be Mr and Mrs, hello there, Gilby. I’m Mark Taylor. ”

As they shook hands, Mark took in Gilby’s Rolex watch. It wasn’t a fake.

Wiping his hand on a handkerchief, Gilby turned to Lucy. “First impressions darling?”

“Actually, I think I rather like it! It’s got oodles of character, don’t you think?”

“It does look the part Darlypoo, but I do have rather exacting criteria.’ He laughed loudly while giving Mark a glacial stare.

“Shall we go in?” asked Mark, attempting a jovial tone. He pulled a set of keys from his pocket and inserted them stiffly into the lock. The wooden door swung slowly open.

The hallway was impressive. Black and white checkerboard tiles led to the curved rungs of the staircase. Chrome lamps in female form threw pools of light onto a black lacquered table.

A quick glance and Mark knew that he had them hooked. Lucy Gilby had even taken off those silly shoes and Hugo Gilby looked satisfied with himself, like he might deign to talk money.

“This house is a magnificent example of the Art Deco period, more commonly known as the Roaring Twenties. Built by the prominent architect, Dackerley Jones, this particularly fine example of his work boasts original features married to modern luxury.” He smiled knowingly at Lucy. “During its glory days, it was a favourite haunt of the rich and famous. Indeed it was once the home of Lord and Lady Bestford, you may have heard of them? Both were well known socialites in their day, even before,” he leaned forward conspiratorially, “the murders.”

His eyebrows shot up. Her mouth opened. Together they made a whole face.

“Lord and Lady Bestford were found dead in this house along with their housekeeper Mrs Scott and their butler. All had been ferociously murdered. If you’d like to follow me, I’ll show you around.”

Mark opened the door to the living room with a flourish. It was all going exactly to plan.

The floor was highly polished parquet; the walls, a soft oyster colour. Oversized velvet curtains draped the windows and luxurious cushions were propped artfully on the Louis style chairs.

“Is that them? The Bestfords?” asked Hugo Gilby, drawn by a photograph mounted over the original fireplace.

Mark nodded. Lord and Lady Bestford were poised, arm in arm, ready to dance. Her glossy, black hair, worn in a short bob, curled over the collar of a thick, mink coat. Mr Bestford, dark hair slicked back, wore a dinner jacket with long tails.

“A good looking couple weren’t they?” commented Mark.

Gilby ignored him.

“I seem to remember Mummy mentioning something about the Bestfords,” said Lucy Gilby. “I think he made his money in manufacturing. What is manufacturing Hugey?” She stared straight ahead trying to remember, “Of course it created such a stink. Their son was a bit of a scoundrel. I forget his name. Teddy Bestford… that was it! Killed them to get his hands on the inheritance type of thing. I’m sure that he was put on trial but the oiks found him not guilty. I think he did himself in after that.”

Mark was no longer listening. He had noticed it a red, pooled mess, half hidden by a rug. It was not a leaking radiator. He bent closer. As soon as he touched it, he knew.

An image of the housekeeper’s twisted, fully clad body flashed through his mind. This was where they had found her. Old Mrs Scott, monochrome uniform, hair thick with congealed blood. Stabbed to death. Fifty four times.

Mark pulled off his scarf and dabbed at his brow, unsure what to do next, what line to take. The cleaner… that was it. She’d had an accident.

The Gilbys were standing together near the fireplace. She was bouncing about like a child whispering and pointing.

Mark, took a deep breath, lightly touched her back and gently propelled them out of the door into the hall.

Even before he opened the kitchen door, he could hear the bubbling presence of other human beings, a kettle on the stove shrieking, pans clashing. Muffled voices.

Relief swept over him, his stomach began to unknot. See, no mystery, people about after all, messing things up and he threw open the door.

Silence. The tightness returned.

The kitchen was pristine. The restored cream Aga stood neatly alongside light coloured wooden cabinets (brought together by the symmetrical lino). The kitchen was just as it should have been.

“Oh Hugsy. I simply love it!” squealed Lucy Gilby, throwing her arms around her husband. He patted her elbow and nodded.

Mark’s smile was weak. Everything did look fine. Apart from the murky shadows that were creeping along the wall. They were getting bleaker.

“What on earth was that?” shrilled Lucy Gilby. Mark swallowed, she’d heard it too.

He’d seen the drawing room before. But only in black and white. Slowly turning the handle of the dining room door, he peered inside.

Everything was smashed. Upturned china littered the large dining table, and shiny porcelain shards glittered like confetti underneath. The pictures lining the walls hung at wild angles; the cabinet doors had been pulled from their hinges; an ancient decanter had shattered everywhere... Only one chair remained upright - as though someone or something had ferociously flung them.

That one chair stood alone. An ominous tangle of rope wrapped around it. Mark knew why. That was where they had found the butler. His throat slit. Sprays of blood spattered across the wallpaper. Eyes wide open. Unblinking. Dead.

Mr and Mrs Gilby hovered obtusely in the doorway.

A blast of wind caused the French windows to jolt violently.

“Just an open...,” soothed Mark fighting against the wind to fasten it shut.

What was going on? His mind couldn’t focus. He’d spent too long looking at those pictures. He leant against the cool glass and breathed evenly. Everything was just as it should be. He would show them the rest of the house.

Gripping onto the wooden handrail, he steered Mr and Mrs Gilby upstairs.

Halfway up, forged from a series of rectangles, was the mirror.

He glanced at his reflection and recoiled. It wasn’t his face. It was him, Mr Bestford. Dead. Grey. Strangled. Tongue protruding – just like it had in the photos. Mark blinked. His own anxious face stared back at him.

He had to get a grip.

They had reached the top of the stairs.

Where had he planned to start? Which door was which?

Grasping the handle, white knuckled, he threw open a door.

The guest bedroom. His eyes quickly scanned the room. This season’s warm yellow sheets covered the twin beds. A wooden vanity unit and artisan’s chair stood on a thick Persian rug.

Mr and Mrs Gilby trooped in.

“What’s that?” It was a repulsed Lucy Gilby. Just visible under the bed, was a tightly twisted, blood-spattered towel.

“Is that blood?” demanded Hugo.

“Don’t be absurd,” snapped Mark. “It’s brown varnish for the parquet flooring. Probably left by the refurbishment team. The cleaner must have missed it. I’ll see that she is reprimanded.”

Hugo gave a terse nod.

Splot. Splot. Mark heard the tap before he even went in. Then he saw the bath. The water in it was tinged a sickly pink. This was where she had been found. Mrs Bestford. Face down. Drowned. Horribly swollen. Blue dead.

His heart was hammering now. This wasn’t going to plan.

“Mr Gilby?” Mark’s voice cracked. “Mrs Gilby?”

Where were they?

Mark was petrified as usual, rooted to the spot. The soundtrack soared, shuffling, screeching, slicing. Then silence.

A skeletal hand clasped his arm, smearing it with bright, red blood.

“You took your time,” spat Edward.

“You know me, Teddy. I like to be meticulous.” said Mark. “What I don’t like is to be surprised. You could have warned me. It really put me off.”

“What are you on about?” hissed Edward.

“The rooms, they looked exactly like they did when you, when you killed all those people,” spluttered Mark.

“It would be very unwise of you to try to trick me now Mark. You know what I’m like when I get angry,“ Edward’s eyes narrowed. “Next time just get on with it.”

“Or what?” Mark mocked. “You’ll kill me too?”

Edward grimaced. He had come to bitterly regret the day he had murdered Mark. Watching the odious little man strut about with his tape measure had been too much- he’d strangled him with it. But Mark didn’t fade away like the others. He kept coming back.

At least he had one use. He always brought suitable victims.

The main photo above, “At Mother Ivey's Bay” is copyright (c) 2013 Shirokazan and made available under a Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 2.0 license