Lucille

‘Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence–whether much that is glorious–whether all that is profound–does not spring from disease of thought–from moods of mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect.’—Edgar Allan Poe.

There are evils in this world of which we know by name only, whilst others remain surreptitiously embedded in the countless mysteries of death and superstitions foretold. The evil that is spoken of is an evil that corrupts and perverts men entirely, driving them to the brink of insanity or the chasm of their demise.

It is not the devil himself that man should fear nor loathe, but the devil within him that makes him diabolical in nature, and that contrast is too undeniable. There are sundry ghosts that are existential and haunt men with a blind wrath, yet the worst of all of them is embodied in the past of men. The story that shall be told is one that is shrouded with an abominable horror that no man should ever witness its unfathomable conclusion.

It was a damp day of spring in the year of 1828, when I reached the south-west part of the country of Wales. A memorable day that I shall never dare to forget nor desire its recurrence, for it was the day I met the inimitable realm of the unknown and undead.

Before me stood the impressive Gothic manor that was the home of a certain nobleman of prestige, whose name was Lord Broderick. His home was a three-storey manor made from wrought grey stones of masonry, with four daunting turrets and sloping roofs that protruded over the medieval parapets of the ancient architecture and design.

There were surrounding courtyards nearby, close to the winding path that led to the endless forest of rows of oak trees and shrubs. An unkindness of ravens had gathered upon the tops of the turrets, piercing their ebony eyes each with a wicked stare.

My visit to the manor was due to the fact that I had been soldiering recently and had sought momentary refuge from the long and tedious trip. The earl, as he was known, had been an old friend of my late father, and had always invited me to pay him a visit, which I kindly accepted, offering a token of my gratitude.

My destination was Cardiff, then London. The days and nights upon horseback began to make me weary and had weakened my fortitude. Thus, I had boldly intuited that I could repose a night or a pair of days until I had fully recovered from the trip and regained my vim and vigour afresh.

When I arrived at the front door, I was greeted by an old man by the name of Mr Gower, who I had assumed to be the butler of the manor. He was courteous enough to escort me to the main hall, where the earl was seated upon an elegant oak chair, with its dentilled top rail, rectangular back pierced with a quatrefoil centred by a painted royal coat of arms, and carved legs with engraved arcaded spandrels.

I would discover shortly upon my stay at the manor that the earl had a pronounced predilection for anything Gothic in nature. He rose to his feet afterwards to greet me eagerly. He was dressed in a waistcoat with laces at the back covering his broad shoulders, a linen shirt with an elegant cravat, trousers, tall hat, curly hair and sideburns, a cape, flat shoes, and white stockings. He was neither tall nor short, but of average stature and over fifty, I had approximated.

I introduced myself, offering a cordial handshake and words of deep appreciation. After all, he was a dear friend of my beloved father and was very reverential of his acquaintance.

‘I am Robert Westbrook, sir. It is a pleasure to finally visit you. I would have hoped that my occasion for this visit was of more conviviality or mere leisure, but my stay will be brief. I must reach London within the week’.

‘Robert Westbrook...the son of George Westbrook?’

‘Indeed, my lord!’

He quickly recognised me. ‘It has been a long time, my boy, since I last saw you. You were a young lad back then, and you have grown considerably. I see that you are a soldier now, judging from your distinguishable accoutrements’.

‘I am an accomplished sergeant in the Royal Army of the King, George III, sir’.

‘You must be hungry after travelling by horse. I shall have you fed and well rested before you start your trip anew, old boy’.

‘I am thankful for your noble gesture and hospitality, sir’.

We entered the dining room, and along the way I noticed the internal decorations and architecture of the ancient manor. The ceilings were panelled, with thick moulded beams and wreaths in the panels. There were winged cherubs in the corners above the ground floor. The entrance hall had columns below the ribbed ceiling, and there was a stairway of thick balusters and prominent finials, with foliage patterns ingrained in the plasterwork of the handrail. The upper rooms had dados and lugged architraves, plaster ceilings and quaint wardrobes. There was a tea room beside the exquisite paintings that adorned the manor.

After my meal, I was escorted to my chamber upstairs, in one of the ample rooms afforded to guests such as myself. It was apparent after a thorough glance at the chamber that it had been quite a while since the earl had entertained a guest. Despite the Gothic appeal of the manor, that particular detail did not elude me.

Indeed, there was an encompassing murk that was strangely pervasive over the estate, with an unwelcome cloud of secrecy. I was aware that he was a man of privacy, as my father had known, but my memory of him was extremely vague and insufficient to judge his character.

That night, I slept well and reposed sufficiently to be able to resume my journey once I departed. I was awakened abruptly in the morning betimes by the eerie caws of the ravens that gathered above the angled turrets. The shutters of my window began to flap back and forth with sheer force. When I rose to my feet to observe the ravens, the earl was standing behind me. Unbeknownst to me, he had entered without my detection. He startled me, but I was still mesmerised by the eeriness of the ravens’ presence.

‘I see that the ravens have stirred your curiosity. I hope they did not interrupt your sleep, Mr Westbrook?’

‘Not at all! I must admit they awoke me, and I was merely startled. If you must know, sir, I am very much acquainted with the irksome sound of ravens in London, but not in the countryside’.

‘I have been to London myself, Mr Westbrook, and I must agree with you. The ravens from the countryside are much more active. I suppose it is due to their unique attachment to this area and to the manor. My beloved Lucille—’ he paused.

‘You were saying, sir?’ I prompted.

He quickly finished his sentence. ‘My beloved Lucille used to feed them and sing to them so enchantingly. She said they were like a choir of nature’.

‘Lucille?’

‘My late wife.’

‘My condolences to you, sir. I hope I was not inopportune with this conversation’, I said.

‘No, but I much prefer that we spend our conversation on things that merit our attention or time, rather than the unfortunate woes of my predicament in my personal life. Let us go downstairs and have breakfast. Surely, you must still be hungry after your travelling’.

I nodded in compliance and accepted his invitation. I could not help but be drawn to the allure of the manor. There was something peculiar about the earl that intrigued me. I sensed that whatever was behind the mystery, it had to be related to his late wife, Lady Lucille, and her passing. There was no doubt he did not want to speak much about her, and it was clearly a topic that unnerved him. To what extent? That was the question I pondered, and the question I wanted answered.

At the breakfast table, we discussed a broad range of subjects, from my service as a soldier to his recollections of my late father. Certain discreet matters were mentioned of which I was unaware of their relevance, particularly when discussing my father at length.

The earl was a man of the utmost discretion and respect; yet I noticed, in his manner of speech, a troubled man with a troubled soul. At first, I did not suspect this. It was only after he acknowledged how much he missed my father and, inadvertently, referred to his wife that I then perceived this peculiarity in retrospect.

The day was spent in his company and in my keen observation of his estate. We walked through the courtyards and discussed more of my time as a soldier. He was eager to know more about the manifold places I had ventured to and the people I had met along my numerous travels. I, on the other hand, was curious to learn more about the estate and the surrounding area.

As I had mentioned previously, there was something distinctive about the mystery of the manor, the forest, the ravens, and, above all, the reason he did not wish to address the matter of his late wife. From afar, I could see what appeared to be the construction of a marble mausoleum, incomplete and covered with ebony ravens and verdant vines. The question that arose in my mind was: who was to be buried in that mausoleum? His dearest wife, the Lady Lucille?

When I ventured my enquiries, he simply responded to each with visible disinterest. It was as though he were too preoccupied in thought and more entertained by learning about me than by answering my questions. He had made it clear to me before that he was reluctant to speak of his wife, yet I decided to pose at least one question about her. I asked him whether she had ever wanted to leave this place.

At first, the question caused him to pause in a manner that suggested he had not expected it. Then, he proceeded to answer with an indirect reply, which I nonetheless understood, as he plucked a flower from the garden and began to remove its petals: 'Perhaps she did, but it was futile if she did'.

'What do you mean, sir?' I pressed him.

'You would not completely understand, Mr Westbrook'.

'Did she die a terrible death of natural causes?'

He handed me the flower, now bereft of its petals, and offered a queer response: 'As you can observe, the flower has no more petals. Thus, it will wilt and be no more. In life, there are such cases, as with my beloved Lucille, where beauty can easily be plucked away in an instant, never to return again'.

It was the last thing he uttered before he tossed the stem into the pond beside the lush garden. We resumed our prior discussions and shortly thereafter returned inside the manor. I concluded that his beloved wife, the Lady Lucille, had succumbed to a certain death—one, perhaps, for which he had not been prepared in its abrupt finality.

Because he did not reveal to me the manner of her passing, I instinctively surmised various dire possibilities. Little did I know what dreadful consequences her death had imposed upon the earl’s psyche and his hold on rationality.

Later that night, as we dined and conversed, an odd occurrence befell us, one that would begin to unsettle me and render me more pensive than I had been before. Something unnatural was becoming evident with each passing hour. As I sat, I began to hear the sudden murmurs of what I thought was a woman’s voice, speaking in soft whispers—a dulcet tone of a morbid nature. It stirred my immediate reaction, and the earl noticed.

‘Is there something wrong, Mr Westbrook? You seem preoccupied in your thoughts, old boy’.

‘I believe I heard the strange sound of a woman’s voice speaking in soft whispers. The intonation of the words was too unclear for me to tell you accurately what was said or expressed’.

The earl’s response did not so much confound me as did the utterance of his words, which were accompanied by a calmness in his voice: ‘It was most likely the wind blowing. In these parts of the country, Mr Westbrook, the wind rapidly quickens the dead from their nightly slumber’.

‘Are you referring to ghosts or wandering spirits, sir?’ I asked.

Once more, he returned to his display of secrecy and reserve. Forsooth, he was a selcouth man of eccentricity and incisive astuteness. ‘Perhaps, but I would not want to disturb them if I were you.’ He then chuckled and ejaculated, ‘Cheer up, old boy; it was nothing more than the wind, as I have stated to you’.

I looked at him and replied, ‘I am not certain what it was I heard exactly, sir, but it did sound like a woman’s voice’.

The conversation turned to another topic, and we discussed matters much more pleasant to disclose; yet I could not restrain the uneasiness that consumed me during my stay at the manor. It was as though I were yielding to the effects of the manor’s ambiguity.

Perhaps I was overreacting, and, due to my travels, my mental faculties were beginning to tire. I attempted to concentrate on the continuation of my journey, but I would be forced to postpone it because of the inclement weather, which would alter my plans for departure from the manor the following morning.

I was eager to resume my journey, though not under such unsteady conditions. A storm arose at midnight and lasted through most of the next day. It woke me in the early morning, before dawn’s arrival. The shutters flapped back and forth with force. Oddly enough, one of the ravens gathered upon the turrets had somehow entered my chamber uninvited. The mere sight of the raven sprang me from my bed and compelled me to seize my sword at once. It stared at me with its beady eyes, but I managed to chase it from the chamber and back through the way it had entered.

When I had returned to my bed, I saw the faint image of a hoary woman clad in a dress stained with blood and mire. I was utterly aghast, as I had stared directly into her harrowing eyes. I felt, in that moment, that she had not come to frighten me, but to warn me. The question was: what was she attempting to warn me of?

Unfortunately, I would not have my answer. She had disappeared into the darkness from whence she had come. It was the first time, though not the last, that I would encounter this wandering ghost of the manor. The butler, Mr Gower, awakened me in the morning. He knocked on the chamber door to announce that breakfast was ready to be served. Once at the breakfast table, I was anxious to inform the earl of what had transpired the night before with the apparent apparition, but I chose to keep silent. I felt he would attempt to dismiss my account, just as he had dismissed the haunting breath I had felt the previous night.

Instead, I decided to discuss the raging storm with him, since, as I had alluded, it was pointless to try to convince him otherwise. Or so I was led to believe. There lingered an uncertainty within me, a desire to know what the earl was conceiving that was beyond any semblance of normalcy.

I would not have to tarry for long. When I mentioned to him that storms were known to arouse the dead from their sleep, he responded in the most disturbing manner, with his familiar chuckle.

‘I am certain, Mr Westbrook, that whatever wraiths awaken from their slumber, be they male or female, are most likely to indulge themselves with more entertainment than we do whilst alive’.

‘I am afraid I do not quite understand’, I replied.

‘It is simple, my boy. You see, the dead never leave us. They are always amongst us, even now’.

‘Are you saying that there are ghosts present in this manor, sir?’

His words seemed daunting to me, but what he uttered next sent shivers down my spine. ‘Ghosts…if they were here, they would be watching us now, Mr Westbrook. Believe me!’

As he made that last utterance, a huge bolt of lightning flashed, and thunder began to roar its unsettling rage upon us. Who was the earl, I pondered—truly behind his persona and demeanour? The man who had known my beloved father, or a man possessed by madness and untold secrets yet to be revealed? When I enquired about the mausoleum and for whom it had been erected, his expressive guise shifted suddenly from being extremely witty to deeply impassioned.

‘The mausoleum is of no concern to you, Mr Westbrook. If you must know, it is being prepared for my beloved late wife, Lucille. It was the last kind gesture I could bestow upon her—a reverence most befitting of her stature and beauty’.

‘Pardon my intrusive nature, but did you not bury her? Where is she presently laid to rest, sir?’

He seemed momentarily out of his intuitive behaviour, pausing unusually before replying. When he did, his words were chilling and foreboding.

‘The Lady Lucille, my deceased wife, is where she deserves to be—six feet under, where she lies within the soil of this property’.

‘Am I to assume you mean in a grave, sir?’

Once more his vague answers were little more than riddles and conundrums to be solved.

‘Do not worry, Mr Westbrook; there is no grave or better place to rest forever than the mausoleum I have prepared for her safe journey to the afterworld’.

He then invited me to see his fine collection of swords, which he had amassed over the years. Each was magnificent in appearance and priceless in worth. Along with the paintings in the manor, the swords were clearly the most decorative objects that had fascinated me. A distinct coat of arms hung above the mantelpiece of the fireplace, with the motto: Death befalls the fool who dares defy its clutch.

Indeed, the motto carried an ominous presage attached to its direful words. The earl was most definitely an eccentric man with a sharp wit. He realised that I was drawn to the motto and proceeded to explain its significance. I sensed that he revelled in entertaining me with his ingenuity and instances of perspicacity.

‘I see that your stare is fixated on the motto, and you are wondering what the words mean. Is that not so, Mr Westbrook?’

I was quick to reply, ‘Are they to be taken literally, and if so, to whom are those words addressed in particular, if I may ask, sir?’

He smiled, then responded, ‘You are an intelligent fellow, Mr Westbrook. Go ahead and grab the sword beneath the coat of arms. You will find your answer’.

For a moment I remained still, uncertain whether he was daring me to grab the sword or merely amusing himself with my tentative reaction. I felt compelled to grasp it, but before I could, he suddenly seized it and pointed it at my neck, saying:

‘As a soldier, you have met death at every corner of the battlefield, Mr Westbrook, but I shall not be the one to lead you to its vaward, for you have many battles yet to fight.’ He then lowered the sword.

‘Good God, sir. For a moment I actually saw an intense look of rage in your eyes’.

‘Rage, you say, my boy? I would rather call it astuteness. Enough of this; let us continue our entertainment elsewhere. Mr Gower has told me you are a chess player. Is that not true?’

I was forced to instantly regain my composure after the incident with the sword and replied, ‘Yes, that is true. I am an avid chess player, although I must admit that I have been too occupied of late, and it has been some time since I last played, sir’.

‘No matter. Now is the perfect time to indulge our minds with wise strategy and intellectual amusement’.

He instructed the butler, Mr Gower, to bring and set up the pieces for the chess match. We sat at one of the tables in the parlour and began to play. I would soon learn that the earl was not only a masterful swordsman but also a masterful chess player. I had learnt on the battlefield never to underestimate any foe, even one who was only a presumed opponent in a game of chess.

An hour elapsed before I finally succumbed to checkmate, unable to match the earl’s prowess. After the match, he congratulated me and said with a touch of sarcasm:

‘You were an excellent challenger, Mr Westbrook. I must commend you and admit you were a worthy adversary. Then again, I must remember that you are a soldier’.

I was never affronted by his sarcasm and eccentric behaviour. Instead, I was all the more baffled and intrigued by the mystery surrounding the death of his beloved wife, the Lady Lucille. There was an interval in the storm when the rain reduced to a light sprinkle and rumbling thunder.

The earl stepped away, going outside during that time. I noticed from one of the manor’s windows that he had headed to the mausoleum to speak to what appeared to be several labourers. I could not distinguish much, except that he was instructing them.

My mind began to turn again to the Lady Lucille and the question of where her body lay. If she was not yet buried in the mausoleum, then where had the earl buried her in the meantime? At that time, I had no inkling as to where her body had been laid to rest. I reckoned that if there was one person besides the earl who might know, it would most certainly be the butler.

Thus, I searched for him until I found him in the corridor near the stairway. I knew that the earl was occupied at the mausoleum and that I had, at least, some time to enquire.

‘Mr Gower, forgive me for interrupting your duties, but I must know one thing’.

‘Yes, what can I do for you, sir? I don’t know if I can answer your question, but I’ll try my best!’

‘You knew the wife of the earl?’

‘By that, you mean the Lady Lucille?’

‘Yes, indeed’.

‘Is there something that you wish to know in particular, sir, since I am but a servant of the manor?’

‘I shall not take much of your time, believe me. I just want to know: where is she buried? The earl told me that he is building a mausoleum for her in her memory, but surely she was buried somewhere in the meantime’.

At first, I perceived a certain reluctance in Mr Gower to respond. After a pause, he replied with a measure of ambiguity:

‘She was buried somewhere on the estate'.

I insisted, ‘Where? I have not seen any marked graves since my arrival’.

He was about to offer me an explanation when the earl entered the manor and saw us conversing. He was unaware of what exactly we were discussing but intuited that it must have been important.

‘I see you two were talking. About what, I don’t quite know. Perhaps one of you could be kind enough to tell me?’

‘Mr Gower was just telling me how much your beloved wife enjoyed painting. Naturally, as an admirer of painting myself, I am fascinated to know more about her’.

I do not know whether I convinced the earl with my version or whether his suspicion of my intent lingered. Nathless, his mind seemed preoccupied with something else. Little did I suspect that the night would culminate in the most abominable terror ever fathomed or agnised by common rationality.

For some reason unbeknownst to me, any mention of his deceased wife stirred a deep emotion and passion exceedingly visible in his dramatic expressions and comportment.

'Lucille was a fascinating woman and an inspiration, Mr Westbrook. I can see why you would be captivated by her. She painted many wonderful things and possessed numerous other admirable talents. Her patronage of the arts was enviable. Her essence was like the breath of a fresh spring, the wings of a morning butterfly, the scent of an intoxicating perfume, and, above all, the beauty of a blossoming bloom. She was all this and more. The woman that I had loved...but love can be as prickly as the thorns of that beauty. No woman is impeccable in the eyes of the Devil'.

'What did she die from, sir?' I asked.

I thought he might eschew the question, but he did not. 'She died from an unnatural cause'.

'Unnatural cause, sir? Such as?'

'Her death, Mr Westbrook, was the result of suicide. It is unfortunate that you must learn the truth about her death, but now that you know, you will understand my indisposition to continue this conversation. I would rather speak of the living. It is not good to prattle about the dead. Why trouble their souls with rue unnecessarily?'

'I agree, sir, and forgive me for my intrusion. I shall not enquire about her any longer'.

He nodded and said, 'Good'.

That was the end of the conversation about her, and in the evening we had dinner. Once more our talk centred on matters that pleased him rather than displeased him. I tried to suppress the intuitive urge to probe deeper into the subject of his late wife, focusing instead on assimilating and appeasing his knowledge and parlance.

He was ever so perceptive of my answers and questions, as if he knew what troubled my mind—or at least, he gave me that firm impression. He had to attend to another pressing matter, and I decided to return to my chamber above. As I walked, I heard what sounded like a loose board creaking from one of the planks on the wooden floor of the corridor. The sound caught my immediate attention.

I stopped to listen more closely. Whatever was beneath the planks was causing the wood to erode. I could see drops of soil through the cracks in the boards. More riveting was the scratching noise I heard below my feet, accompanied by the sobbing of a woman. My instant reaction: had I heard what I thought I had, or had I mistaken the sobbing and scratching for something else entirely plausible?

Regardless of my interpretation, the question remained—what was I to do next? Should I inform the earl or the butler? I was becoming increasingly convinced that something evil had occurred in the manor. The more I pondered, the more my thoughts gravitated towards this foregone conclusion.

Along the stairway, I noticed dried bloodstains and long flowing locks of black hair. The bloodstains appeared recent and still intact. I calculated they were at least two weeks old. I knew this well from my days of soldiering and seeing blood on the battlefields. I gathered the locks of hair and examined them privately in my chamber.

After meticulously examining the hair, I had proof that something atrocious and shocking had transpired in the manor. Upon further consideration, I knew within myself that a tragic secret was being silenced and disguised. Little did I know, the worst was yet to come.

The ravens congregated on the roof as they usually did. The storm had at last subsided during the late evening, despite the occasional drops of rain mingling with the damp dew. It was at night when I ultimately discovered the haunting truth of the manor and the secret the earl had been concealing behind his facade. He had dropped a note from his waistcoat, which I found in the corridor downstairs, near the gallery.

It was a specific letter, written in the handwriting of his deceased wife, Lady Lucille. It was addressed to her sister, Catherine Gaynor. The letter was authentic, but I remained cautious as I perused and then read it. I hid in one of the nooks of the manor, knowing the earl and butler were both distracted in the dining hall.

As I read, the contents of the letter provided the undeniable evidence I needed to presume the earl’s involvement in his wife’s death, though I knew it was not enough to prove his absolute guilt. The following are the contents of the letter, in the words of Lady Lucille:

18th May 1828

Dear Catherine,

I am writing to you with the hope that if I should perish at the hands of my husband, you will know that my death was at his merciless hands. I can see the vile look in his piercing eyes and the penetrating madness in his soul so plainly. They are consumed with wrath and vengeance.

I know he is planning something horrific and diabolical. I do not know how much longer I can bear this unbearable situation and morosity, my sister. He has imposed sheer fright upon me and treats me with disdain every passing day of a fortnight.

He tells me that he loves me, but his love is corrupted and hollow. He is neither fain nor winsome. He still blames me for the death of our son, Caden, and accuses me of having an affair with a certain gentleman from the local area. He knows this is utterly false, yet his ego cannot accept that truth.

Sometimes, I sense that he is out of touch with reality. Please do not reveal the intimate contents of this letter to anyone, including our beloved parents; they would be horrified to know what is occurring here. He has threatened me numerous times, sister, with his pointed swords and rigid pistol.

Thankfully, he has yet to pierce my heart or slice my neck. But I am afraid it is only a matter of time before he commits the ultimate sin of killing me. I must go now, but I do so with the utmost urgency to leave the manor and leave Evan forever.

Upon finishing the letter, I was determined to resolve the mystery of Lady Lucille’s death, even if that meant confronting the earl at the peril of my own safety. What I did not expect was the revelation that the earl had been planning to kill his wife for some time, it seemed to me, and had successfully executed his dastardly plan.

The immediate question on my mind was: if he had committed murder and killed his wife, where had he buried her, or what had he done with her body? The notion of that sickening reality was enough to horrify any person who espoused a belief in morality. It was not the moment to dwell on judging his flawed character.

Instead, I had to compose myself and act according to the situation that had drastically changed the course of events. I could not permit any suspicion on my part regarding his criminal deed. Thus, I approached the earl and the butler in the manner to which they were accustomed to seeing me.

After dinner, he asked me if I was leaving in the morning, to which I answered that I was. It seemed he was pensive about something. I was not certain whether it concerned me, or whether it was something entirely different that only he knew. I also knew that the butler, Mr Gower, was aware of more than he was revealing about the death of the earl’s wife.

To what extent had he partaken in the concealment of her untimely death, and how obedient was he to the earl? I felt certain that a crime had been perpetrated, and I could not let it go unsolved or unpunished. That night, I remained in my chamber, cogitating on how to proceed in exposing the truth, pacing back and forth. I could not fully understand: if the earl was a heartless murderer, how could he retain his innocence and not be racked with unyielding guilt?

Perhaps I had been fooling myself to believe that men were above the decorum of morality and could not be guilty of any despicable crime of this nature. The mask that he bore was exceedingly perfect to conceal his act of depravity. I had slept little and was awakened in the morning with anxiety and anticipation of what was to happen upon this day. It was destined to be my day of departure from the manor, to wend upon the lonesome tracts of land anew; but this day would not be any ordinary departure I had ever experienced erstwhile.

The obstreperous ravens had gathered anon upon the turrets above me, like a faithful legion of martyrs. The morning was void of any token sign of rain, although the courtyards were still drenched in dew from yester’s storm. The storm had damaged the mausoleum, infuriating the earl, who with immediacy had ordered the labourers erecting the mausoleum to repair the structure at once.

He had requested that I not leave until he returned to the manor after speaking to the men. It was the moment I had been waiting for to uncover the mystery behind the death of Lady Lucille. In his distraction, I could remove the planks and at last discover her dead body. The butler, Mr Gower, was away that morning on an errand.

Time was of the essence, for I knew I had to do what I had planned with the utmost celerity afforded to me. I could not utilise any tool available, so I pounded on the planks with my musket. Because the mausoleum was near the forest and outskirts of the estate, I tried not to be heard. I knew that if I was, the noise would most definitely alert the earl to my actions. Fortunately for me, he did not hear—or so I thought. I pounded and pounded until I had removed the plank and reached something unearthed.

It was then that I saw the ineffable guise of Lady Lucille, covered in a hideous shroud, beneath the soot and grime of the earth poured over her deceased and pallid corpse. When I had unwrapped her, her face bore the evident marks of strangulation and punctured wounds. It was a ghastly sight to witness, but one that I had seen several times with my fallen comrades. I knew that she had been strangled to death.

There was no doubt whatsoever in me then that she had not died of any unnatural cause such as suicide, as the earl had stipulated before; instead, she was murdered by him! With the body of Lady Lucille uncovered, I knew then that I had to confront the earl and inform the authorities of this shocking revelation and discovery. His unthinkable act could not go unpunished nor forgotten.

There was no impunity that could efface the actions taken on that horrendous day. I could have chosen to leave, as I had originally planned upon my arrival to the estate, and resume my steady course, indifferent to the reality of the crime committed, but I chose to stay. I waited for his entrance into the manor before I would act.

When he had entered, he saw for the first time my soldier’s eyes staring deep into his, and I would see for the first time afterwards the eyes of a madman like no other witnessed.

‘You could not leave before I had returned, Mr Westbrook. I do apologise for the unwarranted distraction, but I was forced to tend to the personal matter of the mausoleum’.

‘And I to another personal matter that must be tended to’.

‘I am afraid I don’t quite understand what you mean’.

‘The death of your beloved wife, sir—the Lady Lucille!’

‘What about her death? I have told you that she took her own life’.

‘We both know that is a lie’.

‘Are you insinuating something that you know very little about, Mr Westbrook?’

‘Then whose body did I discover lying beneath the planks in the corridor near the gallery?’

‘I see now what you mean. You should have never removed the planks. Since you have, then allow me to tell you that it is only a temporary place, until I place her body in the mausoleum’.

‘For God’s sake, why did you not bury her in a grave with a proper Christian interment? Why did you have to kill her?’

‘Kill her? Lucille, my beloved wife, was becoming a wretched whore, Mr Westbrook. What you fail to understand is—I had to kill her. There was no other course of action to be taken. She was about to ruin and tarnish my name. I am a reputable Welshman. I regret that your stay here shall be your last, and that you will have to face your death sooner rather than later’.

He instructed Mr Gower, who had arrived, to bring him a sword—and he did. I grabbed mine nearby, having taken his words to be a clear threat.

‘Let us see how good of a swordsman you really are, Mr Westbrook’.

He lunged at me amain with his sword pointed, and we duelled. I could see an intense rage rising in his eyes as he struggled to defeat me.

‘You are indeed a worthy swordsman, but your unwelcome death will be one that I shall welcome with my sword!’

Back and forth we duelled fiercely, until I was finally able to pierce his impenetrable heart and cause a mortal wound from which he could not recover, regrettably. I was not a man who enjoyed killing, but I had no other option but to defend myself—and I did.

Before he succumbed to his bleeding death, he made one last profound utterance—a dire warning to me to be heeded.

‘Know that the savage instinct that wields our behaviour and causes us men to be wayward in our deviation is due to the fact that men can never destroy the envy within them. No penitence can deliver us from this evil. One day, Mr Westbrook, you will succumb to this evil as I have unwillingly. I loved Lucille with all my heart, but that love could not overcome my madness. I had to silence her muffled screams forever!’

Thereafter, I informed the local authorities about the crime and the dead body of Lady Lucille before I left the area. Mr Gower was ultimately charged with covering up the murder and knowing about it. He was sent to a Welsh prison and later released after it was revealed that he had not partaken in the murder nor been present at the time.

As for the earl, Lord Broderick, his body was buried in the local cemetery, next to the other members of his distinguishable kindred. In order to save the family’s lineage from the scandal of the perpetuation of his disgrace, the details of his death were omitted and altered to a self-inflicted wound.

There was a strange irony left incomplete, and that was the mausoleum he had dedicated to his wife. Because there was no will nor any family member present to decide where to bury the corpse of Lady Lucille, I made the conscious decision to lay her corpse inside the mausoleum.

Why the mausoleum? I felt it was the only place where her body could be preserved in her state of purity. I could not depart from the estate before I had entered the mausoleum to see her one last time. Few women were as beautiful as Lady Lucille, and few men could ever deserve such a beautiful woman as her. I placed a trinket around her neck that I had found in one of the chambers of the manor. Where, you might ask? Inside the chamber of the earl, Lord Broderick.

At that precise moment I placed the trinket on her, her immortal ghost materialised before me for a brief moment, entwined with the sprawling vines, before disappearing into the gust of wind that entered the front door of the mausoleum, left open by me.

When I stepped outside, I looked up at the turrets to see, for a final time, the unkindness of ravens observing me with such a daunting stare.

After the authorities had left and calm had returned to the manor, I wandered the dimly lit corridors once more. Something gnawed at my conscience—a sense of unfinished business. I was drawn to Lady Lucille’s former chamber, a room left untouched since her demise. Pushing open the creaking door, I entered and was immediately struck by the lingering scent of lavender and sorrow.

Moonlight cascaded through the lace curtains, illuminating a delicate vanity where a solitary object caught my eye: a leather-bound book, its cover worn from much use. I approached and gently lifted it—a diary. I hesitated for a moment, knowing that what I held was intimate and sacred, yet the need for truth compelled me to open it.

The entries began innocuously, recounting mundane happenings in the manor. But as I leafed through, the tone shifted. Her writing became fractured, anguished. One passage stood out, written mere days before her death:

‘The shadows grow longer each day. Broderick’s mood has become tempestuous, his words, venomous. I fear I am watched, not merely by the servants, but by the darkness itself. If I should perish, let it be known it was not my own hand that delivered me to the grave, but the monstrous jealousy of my husband’.

My breath caught. This was the confirmation of her fear and his guilt. I continued reading. There were whispered mentions of a secret lover—a man from the village, a poet who had captured her heart. But more chilling was her final entry:

‘Tonight, he told me I must choose between him and death. There is no choice when love turns to possession, and life to imprisonment’.

I closed the diary and pondered the signficance of her admission. Lady Lucille’s voice, silenced in life, had at last been heard in death. I knew then that my resolve to protect her memory was not merely duty—it was a solemn vow.

I left the estate knowing that I would never return again. Eventually, I achieved my grandeur in soldiering and retired to the quaint abode of my home in England for decades.

Often, during the span of my life, I thought of Lady Lucille, and the one thing that entered my thoughts constantly was what her life might have been, had she continued to live. I shall never know, but I suppose that her terrible fate was already sealed from the first day she had met Lord Broderick.

Years had passed since that grim chapter of my life, and I had long since retired to my quiet home in the countryside. Yet, on certain nights, when the wind howled just so and the moon hung low in the heavens, I felt an inexplicable pull to the past.

One such night, as I sat by the hearth in deep contemplation, a chill swept through the room. The flames flickered and dimmed, and the air grew thick with an otherworldly presence. I turned instinctively, and there, in the threshold, she appeared—Lady Lucille, her form shimmering like mist, her eyes brimming with sorrow and gratitude.

She stepped forth, her voice a whisper on the wind: ‘Mr Westbrook, you freed me from my silent tomb. For that, I am forever in your debt’.

I stood, unable to form words, as her ethereal hand reached out, brushing my cheek with a sensation colder than the grave yet tender with human warmth.

‘I have wandered long in search of peace’, she continued. ‘The mausoleum is now my sanctuary, thanks to you. But I am bound to this earth until my story is known to the world’.

Her gaze was piercing, filled with a depth of sadness I could scarcely fathom. ‘Promise me, Mr Westbrook, that you will tell them. Let the world remember not just my beauty, but my tragedy’.

‘I promise,’ I finally managed to utter, my voice trembling. ‘Your truth will not be buried with you’.

She smiled faintly, her form beginning to dissolve into the air. ‘Then my soul may soon rest’.

With that, she vanished, and the room was once more silent and still. I sank into my chair, my heart heavy yet uplifted by the encounter. From that night forth, I dedicated my days to penning the full account of what had transpired at the manor, ensuring that Lady Lucille’s tale would live on—a haunting legacy of love, betrayal, and redemption.

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