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Teddy Roe waved at her. He was crouched in the bushes that lined the park.
She turned toward him, taking a step forward, and the horror on his face stopped her in her tracks.
He waved her back, away from his hiding place.
“What’s going on, Mr. Roe?” she asked.
“Someone’s got Mrs. Everett,” he hissed. “A postman. He delivered a package, and then he just pushed Mrs. Everett inside. I heard her scream.”
Gabriella stared at him for a moment, unsure whether to take him seriously or not. “How long ago was this?”
Teddy Roe looked around wildly, and tugged at his hair. “I don’t know. Not long. I can’t remember exactly.” He crept out of the bush and shooed her in the direction of the house. “You go get her. I’ll fetch help.”
He turned and lumbered down the street toward the main road, his balance slightly off.
Gabriella watched him go, forcing down the irritation that had spiraled up. He couldn’t help the way he was. She would have to ask Mr. Nelson if he knew Teddy Roe’s story. He seemed to be protective of him.
She turned to study Mrs. Everett’s house, then walked through the open gate but didn’t approach the front door. If Mrs. Everett had been attacked by Mr. Knife—who was the only person she could think of who would do something like this—then surprise was one of her few weapons.
The house took up most of the front and sides of the property, and Gabriella went down the right narrow side access to the back. It was neatly paved, and the house stood much higher than the path. She wasn’t able to look into the windows, which were set above her head.
There was no sound at all from within.
She reached the end of the house and peered carefully into the back garden.
It was a lush, proper English garden—the kind that some English immigrants to Melbourne tried desperately to replicate, despite Australian conditions. The sound of gurgling water told Gabriella there was a fountain somewhere amongst the lavender, roses and hedges.
She edged around the corner and looked for a back entrance, and found there were two.
A sturdy wooden door into what she guessed was a mud room or kitchen, and the glass doors of a small sun room, furnished in wicker with cushions in the yellow and blue of Provence.
She chose the sun room because she could see through the glass walls that there was no one in there, and breathed out in relief that the door was unlocked.
At last, once she was inside, she could hear voices.
They were low, and nothing about the tone told her there was the desperate hostage situation Teddy Roe had painted for her. She would look an absolute pillock if it turned out Mrs. Everett had pulled the postman in for a quickie, and she was about to burst in on them.
Although the tone of the conversation didn’t convey high passion, either, she realized with relief.
And she was here now.
She set down her leather bag, tucking it neatly against one of the wicker armchairs, and then climbed the two stairs from the sun room into a cool, wooden-floored passageway and followed the sound of voices. She felt slightly foolish at the way she was creeping along, but she’d feel even more foolish if Mr. Knife was holding Mrs. Everett hostage.
“I can’t imagine how you believe I know anything about the girl,” Mrs. Everett was saying, voice icy-calm. “She ran to my door from the street, and I just happened to be bringing the newspaper in as she reached me. I saw you and that ghastly death grin you were sporting and made a decision to help her on the spot.”
Gabriella’s heart, already beating fast, felt like it exploded in her chest. Teddy Roe had not been mistaken.
She leaned back against the wall, listening intently. In front of her and to the right, directly opposite the open door, was a hall table with generously curved legs and a large floral-patterned vase on top.
“Death grin, eh?” The voice that responded was cultured and slightly mocking. “You stole my prey from me, Mrs. Everett. That angered me.”
Mrs. Everett didn’t respond.
“I said, that angered me.”
She heard a sharp crack, like a hand hitting flesh.
She tried to make sense of it. This was the behavior of a madman, not a hard-nosed drug kingpin.