LORD RUTLEDGE SAT in the leather chair in the center of the library, face slack, eyes unseeing, his fine suit ruined by a dozen slits, his white silk shirt and cravat now ruby red. His wig had slipped partly over his face, the bottom curls dark with the sticky blood slowly trickling from his gashed neck. Streaks of blood decorated the books, the ceiling, floor, walls. A figure I had first dismissed as a lunatic’s ravings stood near the open double doors leading deeper into the mansion, one bony hand dripping with gore and blood. A painting had been torn from one wall, and the killer’s signature now resided there.
HUMBUG
Streaked and dripping in blood.
I caught only a glimpse of the black-cowled figure before it whipped towards the door and fled into the darkened hall. A heavy black veil
