Second Murder

Hello, and welcome to my 2025 Blogging From A To Z April Challenge! This year, I’ve written you a complete murder mystery novelette. The setting is rural England, a few years after WWI. The extra challenge that I set myself for this story is that the first murder will not take place until the letter “M”–halfway through! And the second murder will happen at “S.” There may be murders after “S,” of course, but they are less structural or foundational or something.

And now, without further ado…

Second Murder

A scream, and then another. It wasn’t the scream of someone who was kidding, either. There was mortal peril in it.

Penny began to run. The woods, the sky, all blurred into movement as she flew towards that desperate cry. After a moment, she almost fell into a clearing with a little cottage at its center. Penny ran up to the door and pounded. It opened at her touch. She tumbled inside.

Hettie lay on the bare wooden floor in the center of a spreading pool of blood, a dagger plunged deep into her chest. She was making horrible sounds in her throat. Penny knelt by the old woman. Did she, Penny wondered wildly, pull the dagger out—or was that a bad idea? She thought she’d heard it was a bad idea, but she wished she knew.

Hettie’s dimming eyes fixed on Penny. Penny shivered at what she saw in them.

“Poor Emily,” Hettie gasped. “She never had a chance.” And then the blood bubbled up between her lips and she died.

Penny felt strangely calm. Hettie’s body looked small and pathetic, lying there on the floor like a discarded garment. Later on, that was going to upset her. But for now there were things she had to do. She had to notify the police, and Dr. Camphor, and she mustn’t disturb the scene any more than she already had. She must—

Somewhere in the house, a floorboard creaked.

Numb terror spread all at once through every part of Penny’s body.

She was quite sure that no-one could be here, no-one at all—except for the person who had just driven a dagger into Hettie’s heart.

Penny stood up, very slowly, very silently. Her legs shook under her, and she thought she would fall—but she did not fall. Her heart was racing. She knew she had to get out, and get out quick. Soon the killer would come in here, and see her, and she would see him. Then she’d know who he was, and he would kill her.

She had to get out of this house, and get out without making a sound. She took a slow step towards the door, then another—then she paused, and, breathless, listened. For a few beats of her heart, there was silence (though her heart was loud—but of course he couldn’t hear that—or could he?).  Then, just as Penny was about to take a third step—another noise—a drawer being slid open, oh so quietly—and if he’s being quiet, does that mean he knows I’m here? A horribly stealthy noise, followed by silence. Was it a listening silence? And what had he been getting from that drawer? Penny’s eyes fixed on the dagger in Hettie’s heart. Only it wasn’t a dagger, she saw now. It was a kitchen knife. Well, there would be more of those.

At that, Penny’s nerve snapped. Suddenly, she was running for the front door, all caution to the wind, screaming—and what she was screaming, she realized, was “I didn’t see you I didn’t see you I don’t know who you are I don’t know who—”

Then she was outside.

In the minute or so she’d been inside, time had taken a great lurch forward towards night. It seemed so dark now—or was that a trick her terror was playing on her? Penny ran a little way, stumbling over roots and tearing herself against branches—and then dove behind a tree, to hide, to listen.

And for quite a long time—thirty seconds perhaps—she heard nothing. She was breathing too loudly, she didn’t like to think what other noises her breath might be covering. But no—there was nothing. Perhaps the killer was being sensible, perhaps he’d realized that, as she hadn’t seen him, the best thing to do was let her get away—anything else would be a risk, anything else, and she would see him. And if she saw him and then somehow got away—no, on the whole, the killer’s best chance was to let her escape.

A twig snapped.

Penny ran. The forest swirled around her. For a time, there was just the darkness and the sense of moving, just breath and heartbeat and pounding feet.

A light in the forest. That was where she’d go—that was safety. The light was a window—a little cottage—she ran up to the door.

“Help! Help! Help!” she cried, striking the door with her fist.

The door opened.

She tumbled in, babbling out the news of murder—and saw, once more, Hettie, lying dead.

“Oh.” Penny cursed herself for an idiot.

Outside, there was the sound of a step upon a gravel path, followed by silence.

Penny ran into the next room–a little kitchen–hoping for a back door. She sighed with relief. Yes, there was a door. She pulled it open.

Stone steps leading down into darkness. A musty smell. Penny’s heart sank. Not a way out. A cellar. A dead end. But she must…

And then, quite suddenly, there was a sharp pain in her skull, and she fell forward, into nothing at all.