Free Thorn by Sarah Rayne Page A

blood had been very convincing indeed. Thalia had not been in the least surprised at how thoroughly the family and John Shilling had been fooled by it. They had been fooled because it had all been carefully planned and efficiently worked out, and because Thalia herself had carried every part of it through with panache. It had been absurdly easy – even obtaining the blood had been easy. And it had
worked
! The fools had seen the blood puddling on the bed and they had made the obvious deduction that it was Eloise’s blood and Royston’s. They had seen the stained knife at the side of Imogen’s bed, and they had assumed that Imogen had stabbed her parents. And in the rush to protect Imogen, no one had questioned any farther. Not even that doting fool John Shilling had actually examined the bodies.
    Thalia made a final check before locking the door. Everything cleaned that needed cleaning? Everything put out for burning that was blood-stained? Yes. Royston and Eloise were now dressed in fresh night things – blue pyjamas and lace-trimmed nightgown – and at first light John Shilling would come, and between them they would transfer the two bodies to the best spare bedroom and arrange them for the undertaker.
    One final thing remained to be done, and that was to remove the cut-glass tumbler that had stayed so innocently on Eloise’s bedside table. In view of the way the family had come to a decision – in view of the way that Thalia had nudged them into the decision she had wanted – it was not very likely that any awkward tests would be made. But a thin smear of fluid remained in the bottom of the glass, quite sufficient to reveal that the glass had contained not innocuous mineral water at all, but a hefty mix of chloral hydrate and brandy. Eloise had been so busy with her die-away, I’m-not-strong-enough-for-all-this act, that she had hardly noticed the brandy. She had downed the draught in one go while Thalia watched.
    She scooped up the glass. It would be smashed and the fragments consigned to the dustbin. If anyone noticed the set was incomplete, it would be a case of, ‘One of the crystal tumblers broken? Oh, what a shame, they are so difficult to match.’ But it might be months before it was spotted, and no one would think twice about it, just as Eloise had not thought twice about drinking from it. The poisoned cup.
    Thalia turned the light off and at once the shadows pounced forward, blurred and menacing. Edmund was there as well, and there was a moment when she saw him, faint but recognisable, the blurred outline bending greedily over the two still forms on the bed.
    It was then that Thalia saw the thing she had been watching for and hoping for ever since she entered the room. From beneath the sheet that covered Eloise came a faint breath and then a tiny flicker of movement. Thalia waited, absolutely motionless, and with heart-stopping slowness Eloise’s hand slid from beneath the sheet and dropped to the floor, the fingertips brushing the carpet. For three heartbeats the blueish vein at the wrist fluttered perceptibly, as if somewhere beneath the surface something was still struggling for life.
    Deep, strong triumph welled up in Thalia’s mind, and for a moment the dressing-table mirror gave back a startling reflection: her own face, but sharper, crueller, thinner. As if a mask had been clapped over her everyday features. Or as if the everyday mask had been removed to show the glaring madness beneath.
    Chloral hydrate had not been the ideal drug but she had had to take what she could out of John Shilling’s case, and he tended to be a bit old-fashioned. She had measured the dose carefully: enough to plunge Eloise into a coma but not enough to cause death. If John had made a more detailed examination the plan would not have worked, but he had not. He had reacted exactly as Thalia had thought he would react. It was deeply satisfying to know you could gauge